


We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime

by YoMamaofDragons



Series: We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime [1]
Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: Engagement, F/M, Five Years Later, Stubbie is Steve Sanders, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-01-23 03:17:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 57
Words: 315,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoMamaofDragons/pseuds/YoMamaofDragons
Summary: "You go visit John Bender in five years, you'll see how goddamn funny he is." Well, Dick, it's been five years. Let's see where he and Claire are at. Includes the rest of the gang.
Relationships: Andrew Clark/Allison Reynolds, Brian/OC, John Bender/Claire Standish
Series: We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889986
Comments: 259
Kudos: 139





	1. Prologue

Author: YoMamaofDragons, aka Bee  
I own nothing, I’m doing this for funsies.  
More notes at the bottom

“We all gotta grow up sometime.” 

That was what his grandpop used to say to him when he was a kid, “We all gotta grow up sometime.” Grandpop Kirk, his dad’s old man, had, according to family lore and oft repeated anecdotes of the past, been quite like, well, like him when he was a teenager. Pulling pranks, hanging out (or “carousing”, as he’d called it), picking up girls, and, his personal favorite, driving his school principal up the wall with his antics. With his friends, he’d once stolen the man’s bad hairpiece and hoisted it up the flagpole—classic! Another time, he’d bribed the school choir to sing Stuff Smith’s “If You’se A Viper” at the annual fancy-schmancy brunch for the schoolboard at the at the Hilton Chicago in lieu of the expected and much more “acceptable” “America, The Beautiful”. 

“Every year, the choir would sing for the board,” Grandpop Kirk had orated to his rapt young grandson, wearing a smirk that would eventually look identical to his own. “Of course, I knew that. So, I gave the maestro ten bucks to change the song to ‘You’se A Viper.’” Grandpop Kirk cackled at the remembrance, smacking his knee with the flat of his hand. 

The pint-sized brown-haired boy in the Spider-Man shirt sat at his grandfather’s feet whilst the man himself settled his bones into his favorite green suede recliner. That same pint-sized brown-haired boy gazed up at him, plain hero worship in his wide, dark eyes, enthralled at his favorite relative’s tales of past exploits. 

“What’s ‘You’se A Viper’, Grandpop?” the brown-haired boy asked, his brow furrowing. His new favorite song was “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin. However, he also liked stuff from the Jackson Five, particularly “I’ll Be There”. His father smacked him around whenever he caught his son listening to them, though. He claimed the Jackson Five sang “pansy music”. 

His dad would always also mutter a stream of slurs following this proclamation the brown-haired boy somehow knew was very wrong to say, even at six. 

A corner of Grandpop Kirk’s mouth lifted. “It’s about pot, kid!”

Grandpop Kirk had never been one to sugarcoat anything, even around his young grandson. But, at that tender age, the brown-haired boy’s grandfather’s explanation had just left him more perplexed. A song about pots? Or one specific pot? Was it a special kind of pot? Like that big, black one witches cast spells in? 

It wasn’t until after Grandpop Kirk died when the brown-haired boy was fourteen that he remembered this moment, managed to hunt down a copy of “You’se A Viper”, and listened to it on the old record player his grandfather left him. And, as the tune played, that same half-smirk crossed his face, the one he now wore whenever he was wryly amused.

Talk about a reefer of five feet long,  
Not too fat and not too strong.

Now when your throat get dry,  
And you know you’re high,  
Everything is dandy. 

Fucking perfect. That prank must’ve been one for the ages.

In any event, after every one of these stories growing up, Grandpop Kirk never failed to conclude each of them with “But we’ve all gotta grow up some time”. When the brown-haired boy, now donning a black Quick Draw McGraw t-shirt, was nine, he finally asked his grandfather what he meant by that.

“Well, kid,” Grandpop Kirk started as he carved out a wedge of cake and set it down before his grandson, who dug right in. Unlike at home, Grandpop Kirk always had a stocked fridge. “When I was thirty-three, World War II broke out. I was too old for the draft, but I wanted to do my patriotic duty, so I joined up. At base camp in Tennessee, I met a pretty nurse. Had a whirlwind courtship, got married, stayed so for nearly thirty years.”

That pretty nurse must’ve been his Grandma Nancy. The brown-haired boy in the Quick Draw McGraw shirt grinned. 

Grandpop Kirk continued with a sparkle in his eye. “When you’re thrown into the thick of war, you’re forced to grow up. I was in my thirties, but I was still pretty immature. It took a world war—and the love of a good woman—to get my head out of my ass.” 

The brown-haired boy’s grandfather had made staff sergeant after D-Day, and was sent home after losing an arm during the Ardennes Offensive. All his life, the brown-haired boy’s grandfather had pinned up the left sleeve of all his shirts, and he never really noticed. 

He was reunited with his Grandma Nancy in early 1945, as well as the twin boys he’d made with her. One, of course, was the brown-haired boy’s father, Jake. The other was his Uncle Lou, whom he rarely saw. 

Grandma Nancy died in 1969, when the brown-haired boy was two. Grandpop Kirk followed in 1980. After he died, the brown-haired boy caught himself wondering if he and his grandmother were reunited in Heaven or wherever and then, because he was now a teenager, chastised himself for being a prissy little bitch. 

After Grandpop Kirk’s death, the brown-haired boy found himself utterly lacking in allies, other than the fellow street kids he hung around on the corners with. Lord knew his father didn’t give a shit about him—the increasingly regular ass-whuppings were proof enough of that, not to mention the shiny new cigar burn on his forearm he’d just received for spilling paint in the garage—and his ma was too afraid and too far up his dad’s ass to come to his aid. He had no other family now, the only person in the world who cared about him was dead, so why bother even fucking trying? 

This, at least, was his silent mantra until the last quarter of junior year. Then, everything went balls up. 

The Breakfast Club turned everything balls up.

She turned everything balls up. 

"…a world war—and the love of a good woman—to get my head out of my ass…"

Well, no disrespect to Grandpop Kirk, but, even though he had the love of a good woman—somehow, someway, fucking miraculously, and God knew she was a damn exceptional woman—not to mention good friends, too, even if one wore tights, another was a dork, and yet another was a bit scary, the brown-haired boy, who was not so much a boy any longer, kept his head firmly lodged in his hole. Against his better judgment. Oh, he tried—tried to act his fucking age, to be mature, to be goddamn worthy of her. Sometimes, he even succeeded. Yet, inevitably, he’d pull some dumb shit to fuck it all up and…

…well. Head, meet sphincter. Get to know each other because you’re gonna become very acquainted.  
Then, one day, life came crashing down atop the brown-haired man’s head like so many shards of broken glass. Then, one day, the brown-haired man was forced to surgically remove his noggin from his asshole. 

That day, for John Bender, was April 1st, 1989.  
**


	2. Peggy Sue's (Did Not Get Married)

Chapter 1: Peggy Sue's (Did Not Get Married)

It would all start on April fucking Fools. Because of course it would. As if that day wasn’t confusing enough or anything, society had to go and add some stupid bullshit holiday. 

Okay, well, Bender was the first to admit that he’d partaken of and delighted in April Fools in the past. Fuck every other holiday. Christmas at the Bender household blew burrito chunks; his best gift, prior to the formation of the Breakfast Club, had been a carton of cigarettes. Thanksgiving was a joke, too. Like anyone in his house would ever be sober for long enough to sit around the table all cozy-like and go around preaching what each was thankful for. No, until his grandfather died, he celebrated with him and some Chinese takeout. Afterwards, he would usually just grab a McChicken from the drive-thru. Chicken was close to turkey, right? 

This all, obviously, was pre-Breakfast Club and pre-Claire. He still snorted in stark amusement recalling when his princess took him to his first Standish family Thanksgiving. In his defense, it was all so frigging pristine, so perfect, so Good Housekeeping-worthy, that he’d had no choice but to shake the evening up a little. A lot. His pet snake, Claire’s Aunt Theresa, and a whole heap of spiked fruit punch later and…chaos. 

None of Claire’s extended relatives joined the John Bender fan club after that evening—nor did her mother, but she’d already despised him—but he’d made an eternal snickering ally in her older brother, Clarence. Yeah, they were Claire and Clarence. Understandably, the guy went by his middle name, Joshua. 

Claire herself was pissed at him for daaaaaayyyysss after that stunt. In fact, it took her brother to run interference on his behalf. She got over it quicker than he would’ve imagined, though. 

Head. Plus. Sphincter. 

Ahem. Anyway, April Fool’s Day was, and always had been, his kinda holiday. The pranks he pulled, first on the likes of Dick and assorted pains in the ass teachers, then on Sporto, Dorko, and the Princess (he could never get one over on Allison; one year, when he left a live tarantula in the cupboard over the sink, she’d shrugged and kept it as a pet, she still had it), were things of beauty. One he’d played on the Sport the morning he was supposed to present some kind of mock-proposal for…he didn’t know what; something to do with toys or some shit…for his Brand Management class, he switched out all his posters and visual aids for ones Bender had spent an inordinate amount of time mocking up himself. They looked just like Sporto’s own at first glance, but contained declarations such as “Yes, I do like to wear tights and roll around on the floor with other guys.”, “Do you really wanna hurt me?”, and “Don’t hate me ‘cus I’m beautiful!” That last one boasted, too, a side-by-side picture of Andy smoldering and simpering at the camera he’d discovered just lazing around a photo album like the fucking gold it was.

All of this was interspersed within graphs and pie charts and crap. When Sporto had declared a Business and Marketing major, Bender resolved to somehow weave that into a fantastic prank for the ages. And he absolutely had. The Sport refused to acknowledge his presence for two weeks afterward. 

Again, Bender couldn’t really help himself. He was compelled. And it was Sporto. He and Andy, the two alpha-males of their weird little band of ragtag misfits, were forever trying to one-up each other. Which, in turn, made both Claire and Allison roll their eyes in annoyance. His girlfriend had once compared he and the Sport to dogs peeing on fire hydrants to mark their respective territory. Bender had shut her up by marking her as *his* territory, though with his hands and teeth and not as dogs did because that was fucking disgusting. Maybe Sporto and Crazy were into it. 

So, because of his idol for April Fools, he considered that his targets would find ways to get back at him. Andy certainly would want to. Maybe Big Bri, for slipping that whoopee cushion under his seat—when he was at dinner to formally meet his girlfriend’s parents. Heh, that was classic. Claire, doubtlessly. She was *not* amused when he replaced her expensive conditioner with Nair. She’d worn a hat for weeks then paid a small fortune for extensions. 

That was why, for a moment or two, on April 1st, 1989, when his girlfriend showed him The Test, he thought she was fucking with him. Or he was on goddamned Candid Camera. Something. 

Anything except the reality that she actually was…

He supposed it really began a week earlier. Maybe even before, if he’d been paying closer attention. Every March 24th—and it was always March 24th, no matter what particular day that date fell on—the five (well, six now, Bender supposed) members of the Breakfast Club met up for dinner at Peggy Sue’s in Shermer, their unspoken preferred hangout post-Saturday detention of 1984. It was kind of lame, so obviously it had been Big Bri’s idea, one they’d all agreed upon the summer after high school graduation and the group’s individual lives shifted elsewhere. Sporto off to U of C on that full ride Old Man Clark never stopped crowing about. Allison accepted into the Bachelor of Fine Arts program at the School at the Art Institute of Chicago. Dorktron winning a scholarship to Northwestern, where he was to be pre-med. And Claire joining the Sport at U of C to major in Education. She wanted to be a *teacher*. On *purpose*. Only Hades—or Dick Vernon, same difference—knew why. 

As for Bender, fuck him if he was going to college. It was a damn miracle he’d managed to bribe his way through high school and actually graduate that bullshit. He sure as shit wasn’t going to put his ass through *more* school. Not that he could afford to anyway. Tuition prices were insane. Besides, he already had a job with a steady paycheck. 

During the summer after junior year, his buddy, Ty, got him a job working for his dad at the carpentry and construction business he co-owned in downtown Chitown. Carter & Craig Construction built everything from living room furniture to suburban houses. At first, he was mostly relegated to desk work—answering phones, filing paperwork, alphabetizing shit, even fetching coffee from the Dunkin Donuts across the road. His official title was “Junior Office Assistant”; Sporto claimed he was a “glorified secretary” with many a laugh, which made Bender scowl.

It didn’t take long, though, for that “Junior” to elevate to “Senior”, and soon, he was finally doing some legitimate work. After a training period, he graduated to working with his hands, building pieces people actually used and put in their houses and paid him for. A year later, Bender’s boss, Big Bill Carter, started taking him on-site, with a paycheck to show for it. 

Big Bill regularly praised Bender’s work with an affectionate clap on the shoulder. “Damn, kid, you’ll be runnin’ this place someday.” 

This always left John Bender in high spirits. Sometimes, he would even whistle on the way home to the apartment that he shared with Claire—“Whistle While You Work” or, his personal favorite, the theme from The Bridge On the River Kwai. 

So, for the first time, John Bender was actually fucking stable in his life. He had a great job, great (if weird) friends, a great (if bitchy at times) girl, a great apartment (because Claire’s richie parents insisted on covering rent), and a not so great car, but he had bought the Trans Am himself, with his own fucking money. That was what counted. Most important of all, he was not in contact with his parents, aside from the odd phone call from his ma to make sure he was still alive, he supposed. 

The evening of March 24, 1989, started as the four preceding it. Mostly. They all arrived two by two, as they were all paired off now. Even the Brainiac. He’d met his chick, Jackie Takahari, in one of his Brainiac classes. She was cute, in a Hot Dork sort of way, with long, straight dark hair and thick black glasses over her eyes. She was also a fountain of useless information and prone to rambling, which made her Big Bri’s lady mirror image, in John’s book. 

Everything was fine, at first. Bender cracked a joke when Andy and Allison arrived about how the Sport had traded tights for yuppie suits. Claire hugged Allison and once more goggled and cooed over the huge diamond engagement ring Sporto had given her, and John tried to pretend he didn’t notice the yearning looks his girlfriend was sending in his direction. When Brainiac and Lady Brainiac arrived, they announced plans to apply to graduate school at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, a proclamation that made Claire burst out crying. Bender looked at her with a raised eyebrow but otherwise ignored the uncharacteristic display. 

John and Andy ordered their usual beers and burgers. Allison and Jackie shared vegetarian pizza. Big Bri still held a candle for PB&J. But Claire only got some lame salad that she barely picked at, which was not like her when they went to Peggy Sue’s. She was not with her bitch of a mother or seeing any of her asshole richie prissy-girl “friends” from high school; she knew she didn’t have to keep up appearances or whatever in front of them. So, he asked her if she was okay, and Claire smiled and assured him that she was fine, but before he could say anything else, fucking Sporto cut in with an overdramatic exclamation. 

“Bender actually expressing concern for someone else? Has the world gone mad? Or are you just going soft, *bud*?” 

Which, naturally, devolved into a verbal sparring match between himself and the Sport—nothing either of them took seriously; John just liked to argue, especially with Sporto. Bender threw arbitrary barbs at his friend—for the Sport *was* his friend, as much as he got on his fucking nerves—from “required uniforms” to his pansy-ass, clichéd proposal to Allison in a rented hot air balloon to the fact that he was now driving around in his mom’s minivan. Andy, in turn, did not let Bender forget that he could still kick his ass, minivan and yuppie suit or no, and made sure to remind him that he and Claire were technically-definitely living off her parents, a fact that never failed to annoy him at the least and cause him to question his masculinity at the most. He was the guy; shouldn’t he be doing all he could to support them?

But he and his girlfriend had had this argument many a time, ad nauseaum. They were living in a pretty nice fucking apartment building, one he never would’ve been able to afford if his life depended on it. Richard Standish (who was actually a decent enough dude, even if he was another Dick) insisted that if his only daughter was going to live in the Big City, she’d be doing it in the lap of luxury, and no ifs, ands, or buts about it, young lady. John could afford to support them both while she finished up school but it’d absolutely be in an apartment a lot less nice than the one they currently occupied, and in a much worse area. And, as much as living off Mr. Standish’s generosity bruised Bender’s ego, he couldn’t find fault in keeping Claire away from the mean streets. 

After dinner came cake. Chocolate. It had a #5 candle on it. Also Brainiac’s lame-o idea, to “commemorate the forming of the Breakfast Club and mark the occasion”, in his cheesy-ass words. Whatever, Bender wasn’t one to turn down an opportunity for cake. 

They were also toasting the unofficial announcement of Sporto and Nutso’s engagement—the celebration-before-the-celebration Mrs. Clark was eagerly planning on throwing. Half of him couldn’t believe Andy and Allison were about to tie the knot. The other half was fucking terrified, because they’d been together just as long as he and Claire, and, aside from cake, Bender also never turned down an opportunity to show up Sporto. But putting a ring on it? 

Before Claire had come into the picture, there was a reason he kept girls at arms’ length. They earned a special place in his wallet and sometimes in his bed (or on the couch, or the backseat of his car, or against the wall in the girls’ bathroom of the Cineplex). Part of him, quite a large part of him, was wary of getting too close. His worst nightmare was turning into that fucklord he called “Dad”, a man who claimed to love his wife but who also habitually hurled at her every insult under the sun and got drunk and beat the shit out of her. The mere notion of turning into that madman so freaked him out, he’d decided early on that the “one-guy, one-girl thing” would never be on his plate. 

And then March 24, 1984, happened, and Claire knocked the complacent John Bender satellite distantly circling and never ever touching the “one-guy, one-girl thing” planet out of orbit and sent it screaming and crashing head-first into Commitmentville. 

It had been easy before, to keep them at arms’ length. Because, before her, he’d never really met anyone that was worth all that damn risk. The more time he and Claire spent together, the more he realized she abso-fucking-lutely was. 

Now, here they were, five years later. If Doc Brown cruised back in time to when John was sixteen—though why the old man would choose to visit Shermer of all places, Bender had no fucking idea—and told him that, in five years, he was going to be with the same girl he’d dated in high school, he would’ve asked him where he got his doobage. And yet, here it was. 

They had a good thing going. Bender had been by Claire’s side ever since she placed that diamond earring in his palm (well, after some hiccups—details). The one that he still wore in his earlobe (because she hadn’t turned him into a sentimental schmuck or anything)—although, they hadn’t “gone public” with their relationship until the start of senior year. It went unsaid, but both he and Claire wanted to see if this whole…thing…between them went anywhere first before they rocked the boat inside their individual social circles (which now, in hindsight and after a few years’ separation from high school, seemed stupid, but whatever) and then, when it became apparent that this was more than just a one-off, they kept it on the down-low because, heh, sneaking around was hot. 

“Going public” had its hiccups, at first. What the hell was Queen Claire Standish doing with Burnout John Bender? She wasn’t the most popular girl in the school—that dubious honor belonged to Sloane Peterson or Michelle Manning—but she was certainly within that whole orbit. His burnout buddies were not much better. Spuds Kleghorn wondered aloud what Bender had on the Princess, speculated something about a dirty video, and Bender had sucker punched him in the nuts. 

John had found a crappy apartment on the west side shortly after high school, a studio the size of a cardboard box that was way overpriced and dotted with mouse holes. Claire suggested he move in with her in the Loop. He’d resisted at first, determined to make it in his independently rented shithole, but she eventually sweet-talked him into it with a few bats of those pretty eyes of hers and a full pout upon those sexy as hell lips. Those things could drive a man to distraction with a mere glance. He should know. 

It helped that her apartment came equipped with two bedrooms, a full-size kitchen, a bathroom with one of those extra deep tubs, a real living space, and a balcony with a fantastic view of Chicago. There was also a fucking indoor pool and gymnasium on the ground floor.

Ah, the perks of being born a richie.

Their relationship was good. They were in a good place. Claire, in her senior year at U of C, was this close to graduating. They had been cohabitating since eight months after he rented his original piece of shit, and, inevitably, they’d fallen into a sort of routine, but not in a sad and pathetic sort of way. He just felt complacent, happy even, knowing for the first time in his life he wasn’t wary of going to the place he called home, worried that the asshole who lived there would get rip-roaring drunk and take out his aggression on him. Bender got used to working his 9 to 5 while the Princess was in school. She’d be out of class when he got home, where she’d either be hanging out with one or two of their friends or, much more preferred, waiting up for him in the living room. Or, if he was really lucky, the bedroom. Even better. 

Had he thought about putting aside some money and buying her a ring? Sure. Obviously. Two people could not be together for five years without those thoughts running through a guy’s head. And holy fucking shitballs, he certainly loved Claire to Hell and back. His redheaded cherry—who definitely was not a cherry anymore, and hadn’t been for some time—had somehow punctured through the thick armor he wore over his skin five years ago. A princess in pink, and it all started in G-D Saturday detention, under the absurd eye of Dick Vernon. 

But, despite how far they’d come, despite how much progress Bender knew he’d made feeling less and less like the irredeemable piece of human excrement his dear ol’ dad had used to set aside time regularly to convince him he was, Bender still occasionally heard his old man’s voice taunting and ranting at him, and in those moments, he never failed to wonder, even after all this time, what the hell Queenie was doing with him. And she knew it, too. Apparently, he’d get this look on his face, one she called his “Back There Face”. In the midst of one of these episodes, Claire would say, very softly, “You have Back There Face”, lower herself to sit beside him, and rub the back of his neck like he liked. And hearing her call it that was always so fucking adorable—he’d never admit to using that word—it usually jerked him out of his trance then and there but he pretended otherwise because her ministrations felt so damn good. 

Lately, she’d been staying up late, stressed as hell, to work on her thesis, which Bender knew was about further implementing the teachings of foreign languages in American public schools because Claire never wasted an opportunity to test her edits out on him, and to study for her finals coming up. John always figured it was his duty to take her mind off her cares for a while. 

Yeah, she knew he was fucked up. Knew Daddy Dearest had *fucked* him up. Was quite well acquainted with his Back There Face. None of it had scared her off. More surprisingly, neither had she placed any pressure on his shoulders to take further steps in their relationship. Claire had been the same way in high school, come to think of it, allowing him to take the lead in making any declarations or setting any labels. He appreciated it. Hell no was he going to ask her about it, though. “Hey, Princess, why don’t you hold my balls in a vice about making all those grand gestures I would figure girls like you to hold over guys’ heads?”

Yeah, that’d go over great. 

So, they’d been in a good place. Content. Fucking centered. In no hurry. They weren’t even twenty-two yet. There was no rush, right?

But now, Sporto had to go and break out the wedding banns and ruin all that. Fuck. Fuck.

Claire hadn’t been coming down on him or anything, at least not outwardly, but ever since Sporto put that ring on Crazy’s finger, John’s cool as fuck girlfriend suddenly seemed to become a tad bit more enamored with rushing. She probably didn’t mean to do it—maybe this was just some sort of “best-girlfriend-getting-married” thing many of the opposite sex seemed to share—but between her wistful gawking when she thought he wasn’t paying attention and the natural competitive nature of his friendship with the Sport, the pressure was starting to build. 

He loved Claire. In fact, there were times Bender was sure he’d damn well suffocate under how much he loved that woman. But marriage? Jesus. They were too fucking young, weren’t they?

Andy and Allison certainly didn’t think so. Damnit. Damnit! 

“…been trying to decide, I’m not sure. I don’t know. Which do you guys think?”

“I don’t think we could answer that, Brian. Right?” Klepto. 

“Yeah, I mean. I know shit about any of this. Sorry, man.” Sporto. 

“I told him he should do what he wants to do, not feel like he has to follow in his father’s footsteps.” Lady Brainiac. 

“Um, yeah, Jackie’s right, Bri. It’s your life, right? And I’m sure you’ll be, like, way successful no matter what you choose.” Queenie. 

“Not to mention loaded!” Sporto, again, laughing. 

“I don’t know.” Dorktron, hedging. “What do you think, John?”

“John! John!” 

Claire jerked him out of his ridiculous reverie, waving her (ringless) hand in front of his face. He jumped, and she stared at him, bemused. He couldn’t blame her. He knew he hadn’t been donning his Back There Face, but he was distracted and pensive nonetheless. And, naturally, it was all the Sport’s fault, with his stupid clichéd proposal and the stupid chunk of change he’d slid onto Allison’s ring finger last weekend. 

Bender was a dumbass when he asked “Uh, what?” instead of reorienting himself and pretending like he knew at all what the hell the five gathered before him were talking about. 

Sporto snorted in amusement. “Smooth, Bender.” 

John wadded up a paper napkin and hurled it across the table at his friend-slash-nuisance. 

It was Claire who responded with a purely Princess eye-roll. “We were discussing which concentration Brian should specialize in, neurology or cardiology.”

“Oh. Well—“ 

Dweebie, demonstrably, plowed on ahead in his dweebie way before Bender could get a word in edgewise or to offer the opinion he’d asked for, lo John, too, knew shit-all about the medical profession. “I mean, I’ve, you know, always been interested in the human brain, and—and how it works and all. So…so a part of me really wants to choose neurology, but, um, you know my dad’s a cardiologist and always hoped, um, that I’d, like, follow him and join his practice.” 

Now, it was John’s turn to roll his own eyes. He was doing that a lot lately. Likely, he’d picked up the habit from Claire, same as she unconsciously echoed his penchant for splaying his feet atop the nearest available surface. Whenever she caught herself, she looked horrified, which was entertaining. 

“Dork, it’s your life. Screw what your old man wants,” Bender opined, knowing he was right. He loved knowing he was right. 

Lady Brainiac, straight black hair tied in a knot and donning the ever-present thick, square-lens glasses over her dark eyes, nodded in agreement. “Thank you.” 

Brian gnawed on his bottom lip, still appearing uncertain. The neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie of their weird circle had filled out over the years. He was a bit wirier, less beanpole-looking. John figured even dorks had to out-dork themselves sometime or another, at least outwardly. The fuzzy mass atop his head remained, though, and his sense of style continued to leave something to be desired. Claire had attempted to make Big Bri over many a time, but it never stuck. Today, he wore a sweater vest the color of puke over an oxford tucked into jeans that looked both too tight and too loose at once. It was amazing, really. 

“But, John, I don’t know. My dad—“ 

“Oh, piss on your dad.” Bender did not have the patience for this tonight. No, siree. 

Beside him, Claire glared, that little wrinkle appearing between her eyes. Bender was quite acquainted with that wrinkle. “John!” 

He shrugged and stuffed another forkful of cake in his mouth. When he swallowed, he continued. “Look, Bri. Do you wanna study neurology?”

Brian paused for an instant, then nodded. “Yes.”

“It pulls to you more than cardiology?”

“…Yes.”

John rapped on the cheap chrome and plastic tabletop with his knuckles. “Then choose fucking neurology. Show your old man that you’re your own Johnson. Dr. Johnson, that is.” A snicker. Didn’t matter how old he got; those jokes would always be funny. “The Sport’s right. You’ll make tons of money and get to buy a garage full of muscle cars and a house in Hawaii and your own harem.” 

Big Bri, being Big Bri, blushed at this last. John grinned. He’d never grow tired of making Brian uncomfortable. 

A cold fry hit him in the face. Across from him, Jackie was scowling and preparing more deep-fried ammunition pilfered from Sporto’s plate. Claire and Allison snorted, plainly amused. “Hey!”

“Th—thanks, John,” Big Bri was saying as he wrapped one wrinkled oxford-clad arm around Lady Brainiac in their shared booth. “The cars and the house in Hawaii sound nice. I won’t be needing that harem, though. Because, um, I already have a beautiful girlfriend.” 

Brian kissed Lady Brainiac’s temple, and Jackie smiled. The girls beamed at them. John and Sporto traded glances across the table and flattened their expressions. The Brainiac and the Lady Brainiac had been going out steadily for over a year already, and, though John liked Jackie fine—even if she did tend to babble sometimes and talk about weird geek shit, he was used to that—the two of them were quite fond of PDA. Not only was this, as Claire would say, grody, but also rather surprising considering Jackie was Big Bri’s first real girlfriend, and the kid wasn’t exactly what one would call an extrovert. Still, they were partial to pet names and holding hands everywhere and randomly exchanging saliva “just because you looked so cute today, teehee”. Honestly, it made Bender want to barf. 

Allison and Claire both thought it was adorable, though. Well, Claire more so. Allison was not averse to throwing something at them when they were glued to the lips for too long. A tennis ball. Some leaves. One of her ancient Chuck Taylors. 

“Awwww!” the two girls cried, in fucking unison, as if they’d planned it. Claire clapped her manicured hands. “You guys are so cute!” 

Brian, once again, blushed. Jackie grinned and placed her head on Bri’s shoulder. Bender rolled his eyes heavenward and leaned his head back against the nylon booth. “Gag me.” 

Claire turned to regard him with pursed lips. Oh, those lips… “That can be arranged.”

John smirked. She’d walked right into this one. “Only if you do the honors, Princess. In fact, please do. Not here, though. We don’t wanna corrupt the young’ns.”

Ah, there it was. That beautiful flush Bender loved so much—loved to see it and loved to be the cause of it. Since Claire was a redhead and had this amazing ivory skin (that burned like a crispy critter in the sun; their long weekend on Lake Michigan last year had devolved into Claire lying in the hotel, moaning and groaning and her blistered skin slathered in aloe vera), when she blushed, it was obvious. And he could certainly tell the difference between the real thing and that pink stuff she put on her cheeks. Five years, and another thing he’d never grow tired of. 

Sadly, it was becoming less and less frequent. Probably used to his antics by now.

The others groaned. This time, it was Klepto who threw the fry at Bender’s face. “You’re disgusting.”

Bender winced. That one had hit him square in the eye, making Sporto guffaw. “Stop throwing fries at me!”

Allison threw another fry. 

They sat in the booth and shot the shit for another little while. Peggy Sue had no complaints, and neither did Bender. Klepto, Sporto, the Brainiacs, Queenie, and his awesome self didn’t get together as often as they used to. Which sucked monkey butts, but that was life, he supposed. They all had their own individual shit now, career goals, living quarters, academic pursuits. Each of them lived within the boundaries of Chicago, but, well, Chicago was a big place, and they all didn’t attend the same oversized pillbox of a public school smack dab in the middle of Suburban Hell anymore. Moreso, if the Brainiacs’ applications to Johns Hopkins were accepted, two of them were going to be in another state entirely soon enough. But—and Claire had forced them all to swear to this promise on pain of death—they were always gonna be the Breakfast Club and be there for the big things and blah, blah, blah, After School Special nonsense. 

John supposed Sporto’s proposal to Klepto counted as a “big thing”. Their eventual wedding certainly would. Andy was going to have a helluva time talking him into a tux. Bender hated those things; he felt like a penguin in them. 

At close to 9:30, after the six had nearly finished filling each other in on their lives at current—Allison and her final project for her Painting and Drawing concentration, a portrait of herself from behind gazing out into a bright Chicago afternoon from the open window of her apartment; Sporto and his internship with Leo Burnett Worldwide; Brian and Jackie’s post-grad plans, which probably included eloping or something; Bender’s updates on the house in Lake Forest he and his crew were working on; and Claire’s stress about her finals—Bender couldn’t help noticing that his girlfriend had grown uncharacteristically quiet. Everyone else was talking, trading stories over the table and joking with each other, as usual. Normally, Claire would’ve been right in the thick of it, tossing in her own opinions or rehashing an anecdote that would no doubt end up embarrassing him. 

But, passive she remained, sitting a bit slouched over in the booth, eyes at half-mast, only offering a smile or two and the occasional “Yeah” or “Totally” when prompted. 

This concerned John. Claire was a freaking chatterbox. He sometimes pointed the TV remote at her in an attempt to turn her off. 

Scooting a few inches closer to her on the cracked nylon, he frowned and placed an arm around her shoulders. “Sweets. You sure you’re all right?”

Damn that fleeting smile again. “Yeah. I’m just tired from studying, I guess.”

Allison leaned across the table. Huge ass ring glinted under the dangling bowl-shaped lamp. “You know what really gives you a jolt of energy? Pixie Stix. Even better if they’re mixed with Coke.” 

Bender grimaced. “Al, how have your teeth not fallen out yet?”

Allison smirked, revealing her straight, white teeth. 

Claire shook her head, short red hair bobbing from side to side. “I’ll keep that in mind, Ally, thanks.” 

At precisely 9:45, Andy cracked his fingers and exclaimed, predictably “Well! I’m still hungry!”, signaled their waitress, and ordered a whole new fucking meal, meatloaf this time—“And don’t skimp on the mushroom gravy!” 

And that was The Moment—you know, that if John’s life were a movie, this would be The Moment the people watching could pinpoint to a change in the plot. 

Their waitress returned with the heaping, dripping plate of meatloaf; the chefs and definitely had not skimped on the mushroom gravy. Sporto’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas, and he dug right in. Then, a minute later, as the smell of the gravy hit him and he was going to annoy Andy with gravy breath jokes, Claire stiffened beside him. 

Bender turned to regard her and, sure enough, she was pale. Okay, she was always pale. But now the effect was less “porcelain doll” and more “corpse”. She even appeared a little green, and Bender hadn’t known that was an actual thing and not just a turn of phrase. 

“Claire?”

“Are you okay?” Allison.

“You—you look a little…” Dorktron. 

Claire wavered in her seat a little. He didn’t like that at all. “I’m okay, I’m—“ 

And then, those arresting brown eyes of hers widened, she scrambled out of the booth, and gunned it for the ladies’ room. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* Me, again! Guten Tag!
> 
> Note 1: So, in this part, I introduced the OC. Brian reminds me of my friend Todd, so I based Big Bri's gee-eff on Todd's IRL girlfriend, Midori (who picked out Jackie's name, shoutout: I know you're reading this), who is a big fan of the movie herself. She has a signed poster and everything, I have major FOMO. 
> 
> So, yeah, I don't wanna go in *too* deep with her because that can come off Mary-Sueish and Mary-Sues are beasts of no nation. 
> 
> Note 2: I am sprinkling this fic with odes to other pieces of pop culture. IE: "You have Back There Face" is a nod to the "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" line "You have Something Face", which Buffy uttered to Angel just before he broke her heart in a sewer *grumble grumble*. See if y'all can catch any and all of the other nods!
> 
> Note 3: I have written over 100 pages of this so far but I'm still not done, though I am definitely working on it regularly. It's sparking my Muse.


	3. Chapter 2: Needful Things

Chapter 2: Needful Things

'Ughhhhh…'

Claire Standish had known something had been, eh, off the last few days. All right, maybe weeks. She’d been lethargic and headachy, not to mention the weird pendulum that was her mood lately. The other day, she’d snapped at John for leaving an unwashed glass in the sink, knowing that he’d only recently returned home from a long day at work and was tired. Upon apologizing later that night, she’d ended up all but pouncing on him—which, though he’d certainly appreciated the amount of effort she’d expelled to show her sincerity, was not like her. Claire wasn’t passive in bed or anything, but John was her first and only, and he’d been much more experienced than she when they first started sleeping together. As such, back then, she’d been bashful and uncertain, and sometimes even now, she questioned herself. So, she usually let him take the lead. He had absolutely no complaints. 

Not the other night, though. The other night, Claire was, as John had called her whilst he lay staring up at the bedroom ceiling in delighted bewilderment, a “wildcat”. 

Last week, she had burst into tears upon reading in the Chicago Sun-Times that Pete Rose was being formally investigated for illegally betting on games. And not just tears either but thick, choking sobs. Very weird, considering that she didn’t even give a crap about baseball. 

And just that morning, she’d woken up feeling tender in the chest area. Like “second day of a really bad period” tender. For a fleeting instance, she considered that maybe her boyfriend had gotten a wee bit carried away the night before pawing at her…but no. John was always incredibly gentle with…those, unless she specifically requested otherwise. 'Like my boobs are made of porcelain.' If Claire weren’t freaking out at current, she’d be smiling fondly.

In reality, though, she definitely was freaking out, so all she could do was try valiantly not to puke. You know, again. 

'Oh, God. I feel so gross.'

Before the other night at Peggy Sue’s, she’d been able to attribute her headaches and general malaise to staying up late studying and working on her thesis, an argument in favor of implementing a more involved second-language curriculum in American public schools. Claire, as a native English speaker and a second-language French speaker—having learned the tongue in childhood from her mother, who also spoke the language—was quite passionate about the subject matter, and thus had spent many an hour writing and revising and full-proofing her position until her wrist ached. It was easy to blame these symptoms, if they could even be called that, on working too hard. 

However, then she started to feel a mite queasy on and off, sort of a low-grade nausea that hummed just beneath the surface. But, again, this was probably just nervous butterflies resulting from finals coming up. No biggie. 

She had noticed, over the last few days, that it’d grown increasingly less low-grade. The nausea. The “nervous butterflies”. But, again, she rationalized it all in her mind.  
When she very nearly vomited all over her new blue velvet Louis Vuitton flats before gratefully managing to make it to the toilet at Peggy Sue’s, upon returning to the table, she told everyone that she’d tried something new for lunch that hadn’t agreed with her. Even though Claire had only grabbed a soft pretzel from the nearest cafeteria on campus between classes. 

Then, the next day, it happened again. This time, while shopping with Allison and Jackie on North Michigan. Thank God the saleslady at the Ralph Lauren store allowed her to use their facilities. 

Claire’s sudden need to use the bathroom had interrupted Jackie chattering on about the Soviets having elected non-Communist Party members into their version of Parliament for the first time in decades, and when she returned—bashful, annoyed, and hopefully not reeking of puke—Jackie and Allison looked concerned. 

“Claire?”

“Is everything okay?”

Claire’s answering smile felt weak. “Yeah, sorry. I just, like, really had to pee.” 

The two girls traded glances, obviously skeptical or weirded out or whatever. Claire couldn’t blame them. 

When she failed to barf again for the next two days, Claire allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. The reprieve didn’t last long. In fact, the nausea came back with a vengeance, as if it were angry at Claire for daring to ignore it, and she spent entirely too much time on her knees that day bowing to the porcelain god. She ended up skipping her final class for the day because she felt so craptastic. 

That was the 28th. Claire valiantly held on to her willful ignorance until the 31st. Then, after dry-heaving because she hadn’t eaten anything that morning, she was forced to admit that something was up. Maybe she had food poisoning? Had she eaten something weird after all? What was it? Taco Bell? One of her mother’s attempts at cooking French cuisine? Anything in Allison’s refrigerator? 

Claire knew that she needed to confide in someone—a doctor, most like. But, ugh, she hated doctors, had ever since it took four of them to hold her screaming six-year-old self down for a flu shot. She didn’t want to tell John, not yet; she didn’t wish to worry him unless necessary (nor did she particularly want to ponder what necessary could mean). She ended up calling Jackie and Allison. Brian’s girlfriend was a pre-med student at Northwestern, aimed to be a pediatrician, and Allison was just into gross things. They would have to have thoughts, right? 

Oh, but they certainly did. 

Claire heard the girls letting themselves into the apartment from the inside of the bathroom, a location she had already visited twice today for non-relieving herself purposes. Claire had had just enough time to buzz them in after the maître d’ in the lobby phoned the apartment—she and John lived on the nineteenth floor of the Housely Village Tower, one of the more expensive properties in the Loop and co-owned by a friend of Richard Standish’s—before the ominous rumbling in her stomach heralded a turn for the disgusting. 

Upon weakly opening the bathroom door, Claire took in the sight of her two friends standing there, Jackie wearing a sympathetic grimace and Allison raising an eyebrow in amusement. 

Claire scowled at the latter. “And what is so funny?”

Allison’s smirk widened. “You look like cra-aaap!” she sang. 

Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “Thank you.” 

Thankfully, it was a Friday. Claire had only one class today—Classroom Management 201—that’d let out early an hour before. 'Thank God Professor Goodwin was in a good mood.' Her usually surly prof tended to keep her classes until the last possible second, but someone up there must’ve liked Claire because they were let out nearly an hour early. Fortunate, considering she didn’t particularly think throwing up all over Professor Goodwin would endear the woman to her. 

Jackie bade Claire sit on the nearest settee in the living room. As she lowered her weary body into it, unbidden, a memory resurfaced of Claire and her boyfriend purchasing it. After glimpsing it in a boutique furniture store window, she’d run inside, determined then and there to have it. A vintage piece in the neoclassical style, with a matte gold frame and thick forest green cushions, the settee was more an objet d’art than furniture. John had burst out laughing when he first viewed it, declared it the “single most uncomfortable-looking piece of crap” he’d ever seen, and indulged her by putting it together for her anyway. He still refused to sit in it, though. 

Jackie dug through her bag of medical instruments, many of which she’d purchased herself at specialty stores. “Okay, I’m just going to give you a cursory examination. I won’t draw any blood, so you don’t have to worry, though I am certified, but your apartment isn’t sterile, as gorgeous as it is, so if you want blood drawn, you need to go to a lab. I can give you—“

Claire winced, picturing a needle puncturing her skin and siphoning her blood. No thanks. “Jackie. Please?” 

Brian’s girlfriend blushed, her golden complexion lightly blooming with crimson. “Sorry.”

Allison, lounging on the floor beside a kneeled Jackie, her legs in the air as she twisted them together like a pretzel, glanced over at the would-be doctor and asked, “You can really draw blood?” 

“You learn it in freshman year,” she replied after snapping on a pair of rubber gloves and shoving a thermometer under Claire’s tongue. 

“Can you draw mine?”

Jackie paused in what she was doing, pulling a blood pressure cuff out of her medical bag, to regard Allison over her shoulder. “Uh…why? Or do I not wanna know?”

'You probably don’t', Claire thought to herself, lips pulling at the corners. If her mouth hadn’t been otherwise occupied, she would’ve said so out loud. 

Allison turned back to the ceiling, her dark hair splayed behind her. “I want to pour some in a vial for Andy to wear around his neck. In fact, could you draw some of his, too?”  
Jackie looked grossed out and horrified. Claire just shook her head. 

A minute or two later, the thermometer was removed, and the blood pressure cuff around her left bicep was taken off. Jackie studied first one, then the other. “Hmm. No fever. Your blood pressure is 100/70, pretty normal. I’ll check your reflexes.”

After Claire’s reflexes, pulse rate, throat, and ears were examined and each subsequently cleared, instead of experiencing relief, Claire began to feel a true stab of worry in the pit of her stomach. Because she knew something was wrong. And if Jackie’s four years of pre-medical knowledge couldn’t figure it out… 

She’d have to go to a doctor. A real doctor. Maybe there was something really wrong…

Claire’s stomach swam, and she raced down the hall towards the bathroom. Diving for the toilet in the nick of time, she expelled the remainder of her lunch. 

When she finally managed to stumble out of what was becoming her most visited room in the apartment, an unexpected picture greeted her—that of Jackie on the vintage black rotary phone beside the sofa, in the process of hanging up with whomever she’d been talking to, and Allison staring at her wide-eyed. 

Claire suddenly felt very naked under that stare, though she was totally covered in her favorite pink sweater and black Calvins. 

“What’s going on?” she asked warily, stepping further into the living space. “Who was on the phone?” 

Gnawing on her lower lip, Claire watched whilst Jackie and Allison traded glances. Which annoyed Claire, because now she felt out of the loop and the subject of gossip, two things she hated to be. Pursing her lips and crossing her arms over her chest, she added impatiently, “What?!” 

It was Allison who scrambled up from the floor and approached her—slowly, as if she was a frightened Chihuahua. Taking Claire’s hands loosely in her own in a very un-Allison gesture, her friend stared intently at her face. It reminded Claire of the look in her eyes when she was badgering her in detention about admitting her virginity. 

Claire was instantly on guard. She did not like that look one bit. 

“…Claire?” Allison lightly swung their arms between them and squeezed her hands. 

Claire, in turn, regarded her sidelong. She half-expected foreboding music to be playing somewhere in the background. “…yeah?”

“Ahmmm…” Allison thinned her lips and narrowed her eyes, which were ringed in a thin layer of black shit. “When was the last time you had your…you know. Monthly Hell.” 

Her brow furrowed as she thought. “Well, it was…it was…”

She couldn’t recall. 

Claire looked at Allison. Allison looked at Claire. Both of them turned to look at Jackie, who only shrugged helplessly. 

Brown eyes widening nearly out of their sockets, Claire leaned back against the wall behind her, suddenly boneless. 

Oh, fucking shit.  
**  
There were a few things in his life Andrew Clark could say, with absolute certainty, that he loved very much—his friends, his mom and brothers, Allison, and his awesome new mobile phone. That’s right, a *mobile phone*. He could barely believe it himself; he could just walk outside and talk to someone hours away, it was amazing! No wonder Bri loved new tech so much. 

For his recent twenty-second birthday, his mom had gifted him with the brand new Motorola 9800X. It was three grand, and he’d tried to convince her to return it. Unlike the Standishes, the Clarks weren’t rolling in it. They weren’t headed for the poorhouse or anything, but they were definitely more middle class than Claire’s family. And ever since his old man and his mother had divorced three years previous—'Finally. That fucking asshole.'—the house in Shermer remained one-income. His old man’s alimony and child support payments could not always be counted on, which had Andy urging his mom to take his father to court. Carol Clark had three other boys to consider, two of whom were underage and dependent. 

Still, his mother insisted. Carol, who was a registered nurse, was so proud of her second eldest for having nearly finished college, she’d been secretly squirreling the money away, determined to buy him the phone. He also would’ve appreciated a junker car so he didn’t have to keep driving around in Carol’s old minivan and Bender would stop cracking soccer mom jokes, but the mobile phone was bitchin’. 

He didn’t get much opportunity to use it, alas. Mainly to call his boss at Leo Burnett. Claire had one, but she rarely even took it out of her room; she said it was too cumbersome (it kind of was, Andy had to admit), Ally claimed the phone and the suit made him look like Gordon Gekko, neither Bri nor Jackie had one, and Bender would rather spend his money on other shit, like pot and vinyl. 

Andy snorted as he turned and pushed through the doors of the café where he and Brian occasionally met up. When he was downtown for his internship, Bri was just finishing up a class nearby, so they’d meet for coffee—or, in Andy’s case, coffee, a croissant sandwich, and a donut or three. 

Recognizing his friend seated at their usual corner table, Andy raised an arm and walked over. Brian was really starting to fill out. He’d blend right in on the basketball team at Northwestern. If not for that curly mop on his head. And Bri would probably find some way to geek up the uniform. Today, he was wearing green chinos and an orange sweatshirt. 

“Hey, Bri,” Andy greeted, sinking down into the opposite chair.

“Hi—Hi, Andy.” Brian cupped his hands around a large green mug of steaming coffee. “What’s up?”

Andy carefully placed his phone down atop the table and rid himself of his briefcase. “I wanted to get your opinion on the wedding venue, man. You think we should have a church wedding?”

Ever since he had proposed to Allison, and she said yes, this query had been plaguing Andy Clark. Andrew was Catholic on his mother’s side and Protestant on his father’s side, which meant that, in the event of a church wedding, the ceremony would definitely take place in a Catholic cathedral—whatever it took to further piss off his dad was a-ok by Andy. He wouldn’t call himself a great Catholic or anything. It wasn’t like he obediently attended mass every Sunday. And when he did go, he sometimes found himself drifting during the homilies, falling asleep or idly perusing the bulletins pinned on the board beside his family’s pew. Then there was the time he couldn’t stop sneezing during a scripture reading. Carol had made him leave and wait in the lobby. 

But he still considered himself a Catholic. Or at least God-fearing. He went to Midnight Mass on Christmas and really frigging early on Easter. That counted for something, right? 

His fiancée, though—Andy always inwardly grinned thinking of Allison as his fiancée—was agnostic. She didn’t know what she believed, mostly because she didn’t care, and also to spite her parents, who were strict Presbyterians. None of this mattered to Andy. Allison Reynolds was his world. She could worship a golf club, it wouldn’t make a difference one iota, not to him. His mom, though…

Carol loved Allison. Obviously. She was planning on throwing the engagement party to end all engagement parties. But she really wanted her son to get married in a church. He’d talked to Ally about this, and she’d offhandedly insisted that it was all right, but he still felt weird about it. She clearly wasn’t totally thrilled about the idea, and Andy wanted to give his fiancée the wedding of her dreams. 

'Engaged two weeks and already, wedding stress.' 

Opposite him, Brian took a sip of his coffee. “Well…what does Allison think? Have you asked her?”

Andy waved down a waitress and ordered a mocha java with whipped cream and one of those giant creampuffs. If his order ever breached beyond these walls, he’d never hear the end of it. “She says a church wedding is fine. But…” 

Brian grimaced in sympathy. “I—it doesn’t really seem fine?” 

Andy shook his head. He smiled thinly up at the waitress when she brought his order. “I don’t know, Bri. I don’t want just fine for her. Ally deserves more than fine. I want our wedding to be a day she’ll always remember.” 

A corner of Brian’s mouth ticked. “I think she’ll remember it no matter what happens or where you have it, Andrew. I, uh, don’t imagine you forget your wedding day.”

“Still,” he replied, swallowing a mouthful of creampuff. Damn, but they made them good here. “I don’t want our engagement to be better than the actual wedding. That would suck.” 

Their engagement had been pretty awesome, if he did say so himself. Ally once told him, lying in bed after a particularly…shattering evening, that, while she was still young, she wanted to one day ride in a hot air balloon. “I always wanted to touch the sky,” she’d explained with one of those little laughs he loved; they were pure Allison. “I had a lot of kites as a kid. I was so excited when my dad took me on my first plane trip. But I couldn’t reach my hand out the window and touch the sky, it was disappointing.” 

So, Andy resolved then and there to fulfill Allison’s wish. And what better way to do it than by asking her to marry him while floating in the sky? 

Andy had come to the conclusion that Ally was the only girl for him, would always be the only girl for him, eons ago. There wasn’t a future he could envision without Allison Reynolds standing there right by his side. They had idly talked about marriage, about their future, since they were nineteen, but Andy didn’t start seriously considering proposing until the start of his senior year at U of C. Yeah, they were young, but so what? Lots of young couples were getting hitched these days. He had a job secured post-grad at Leo Burnett, he had his own place closer to campus but he practically lived with Ally anyway, all he needed was to make it official. 

So, he waited until their fifth anniversary—actually a week before their fifth anniversary, as the Breakfast Club had that standing thing at Peggy Sue’s on the 24th—to take her up in a hot air balloon he’d reserved a few months previous. It was black with the skull and crossbones emblem, like if Blackbeard traveled by hot air balloon instead of tall ship. He knew Allison would like that. 

Just as they were sailing over an open field of wildflowers, just as the sun was setting and coloring the sky a hodgepodge of pinks, blues, and oranges, Andy got down on one knee and asked Allison to marry him. She squealed and lunged at him so hard, she nearly sent them both tumbling out of the basket; he probably should’ve thought of that beforehand. 

The ring was a real beaut, and completely Allison—the main gem was an ovular black onyx, encircled by tiny white diamonds, while the ring itself was gold. Like his mother, he’d been putting money away to afford just this ring for some time. After seeing it in the jewelry store’s display case, he knew he had to buy it for her, and arranged a deal with the jeweler to pay for it in increments. 

It was almost all paid for. Just two more monthly installments, and then he could stop having a near heart attack whenever she ventured out in public wearing it. 

Brian took a bite of croissant, which mysteriously materialized on a plate at his right side. Andy was sure one of the waitresses had a thing for Big Bri. Morgan, this cute redhead, was always smiling at him and had committed his preferred order to memory long ago. Predictably, Bri brushed Andy’s good-natured teasing off with a mumbled “She’s just good at her job” accompanied by a flush of crimson. 

“I think you need to…to have a more in-depth talk with Allison,” he advised now, tearing off a piece of the croissant and dipping it in the coffee. “Let her know, um, th—that it’s her wedding, too, and her happiness is important to you. Besides…she’s the bride. Doesn’t the bride always get final say? Et cetera.” 

Andy burst out laughing. “Well, Claire would definitely think so.” 

His friend noticeably and dramatically shivered at the notion of Claire Standish being placed in a position where she could bark orders and everyone and everything and get away with it entirely. “Don’t do that to me! That mental image is terrifying.” 

“Imagine being Bender. If the guy got through it with his balls intact, I’d buy a lottery ticket.”

The two boys shared a grin, likely both picturing it. Andy knew he was. 

“You’re right, though, as always,” he continued, wryly quirking one corner of his mouth. Rarely was Bri wrong about most anything. “I’ll need to find time to really sit her down and talk to her. I don’t want to book anything without truly knowing where she stands.” He sipped at the mocha java he definitely was not having and wiped away the whipped cream ‘stache with a nearby paper napkin. “How are you and Jackie?” 

Brian shrugged, though Andy could detect the dopey smile attempting to pull his lips upward at the mere mention of his girlfriend. Andy himself still tolerated Brian’s forays into “oh-my-God-I-really-have-a-girlfriend” inanity, even after a year, but Bender had reached his threshold—not that there’d ever been much of one to begin with. Whenever the three were having a boys’ night and their group’s resident asshole caught Bri, in his words, “acting a pussy-face, lovesick fool”, he’d pull an Allison and throw something at him. 

“She’s fine,” he replied; Andy noticed that the croissant was coming apart at the seams in his friend’s fingers now. “You know, we’re, um, good. Jackie’s gonna take me to the opera next week. With her mom.”

What went unsaid, hanging in the air between them, was the thought “But not her dad, because he hates me”. The Takaharis had been wary of Brian at first, Andy knew, but the big guy quickly won Jackie’s mother over with his intelligence and bashful manner. Mr. Takahari, though, was another story. He largely considered Brian to be a distraction in his daughter’s studies, and preferred her to wait to date until after she’d graduated from university. Preferably with her Masters. Or Ph.D. Brian was not used to parental or authority figures so openly and ardently disliking and disapproving of him. 

Andy had suggested that he ease into it with Mr. Takahari—you know, try to find common ground and go from there. Bender, on the other hand, was full of advice of a different sort. 

“Dude, she’s an adult, she can do what she wants. And evidently, what she wants to do is you, Big Bri.” Brian’s face had become suffused with such a deep red, Andy was afraid he’d pass out or need to go to the hospital or something. Bender cackled. “Take your chick and flip the old man off. Or, if you really wanna get at him, I know a guy who can whip together a stink bomb in a jiffy.” 

Sneering in disgust, Andy shook his head. “Sometimes, I have no idea why Claire puts up with your ass.” 

Bender lit a roach and inhaled. “Me neither.” 

“What are you seeing?” the Business and Marketing major asked now, taking a bite of creampuff. 

“There’s a performance of Carmen at the Lyric Opera of Chicago. I’ve, um, always w—wanted to see—see it, so Jackie invited me along. Um, she inv—invited her dad, too, but, um, he didn’t wanna go.” 

Poor Brian. His self-conscious stutter always grew worse at the mention of Jackie’s father. 

Andy opened his mouth to reply—he didn’t know exactly what he was going to say, to ease the situation; Mr. Takahari was a stubborn bastard if he ever knew one, and he’d never even glimpsed the man—when he was suddenly cut off by a shrill ringing sound. It took him too many seconds to realize that said echo was blaring from the direction of his three-thousand-dollar phone, which remained lying face-side down on the table. Reaching for the device, he pressed the on button and brought the super bitchin’ mobile phone to his ear. It had to be his boss, Mr. Porras. No one else called him on this thing, not even Allison. He couldn’t imagine what he’d forgotten to do, though. Or maybe he’d left something at the office? 

“Hello? I mean, uh, Andrew Clark.” He still did not know exactly how to answer his mobile phone. A simple hello didn’t really express the sheer awesomeness of owning one of these marvels. Yet, stating his name into the speaker felt unnatural and gawky and, thus, not very professional. 

Professionalism, it appeared, was not something he needed to fret over just now. For the voice on the other end assuredly did not belong to his gruff middle-aged boss but instead to a twenty-something young lady. 

It was Brian’s girlfriend. 

“Andy?”

Furrowing his brow, perplexed as to why Jackie would be calling him of all people, he replied, haltingly, “Oh. Hey, Jackie. Um, did you need to talk to Brian?” 

Bri perked up over his oversized mug at the mention of his girlfriend’s name. On the other end, Jackie Takahari paused. “Oh, you’re together? Good.”

Now, Andrew was quite bewildered. If Jackie hadn’t known beforehand that he and Brian were going to be hanging out this afternoon, why the phone call—to his (brand spankin’ new, really frigging cool) mobile phone? 

“I need you guys to do something for me.” Another pause. “Actually, it’s more for Claire…” 

Up went one blond brow. “Claire?”

Across from him, Brian mouthed “What’s going on?” and Andy just shrugged his shoulders. 

Yet another pause. He was starting to become annoyed. “Yeah. Um, do you think you can get to the nearest drug store and buy as many different kinds as you can and then drop them off at the apartment? It’s sort of—“ 

“Wait, wait.” Coughing, Andy brought the phone closer to his ear, visibly straining. “Buy as many different kinds of what?” Nothing. “Jackie?” 

A sigh sounded clear as day over the other end. “Pregnancy tests.”

He almost dropped his brand spankin’ new and really frigging cool (and expensive as hell) mobile phone on the unforgiving checkered floor as the words echoed in his head. “What?! Jackie, are you kidding?” 

At this exclamation, Brian was practically leaping over the table demanding to know what his lady love was saying. Andrew held aloft one finger to silently ask for patience. 

“Do you think I’d kid about this? Please, Andy. We’ll pay you back. Um, just get as many different brands as you can, okay? We’ll see you soon.” And the line went dead. 

He stared down at the gray device in his palm for a good thirty seconds as if it would sprout wings and fly away. “Holy shit!” 

Bri looked like he was going to strangle him. Maroon in the face and his mop of blond curls sticking up and out in every which way, Andy was momentarily afraid his friend would suffer a burst vein. “What?! What?! What’d she say, for Pete sakes?!” 

Andy almost snickered. Bidding Bri to sit back down, he placed the phone right-side up atop the table and assured, “Bri, relax. Jackie’s fine. But, err, she sort of needs us to do…something.”

The redness in his face had begun to fade but Brian still looked a bit peaked. “What something?” 

“It’s for Claire. Um, we need to get her a…Jesus.” 

“We need to get Claire a Jesus?” Two nearly invisible brows knitted together. 

Andy could’ve smacked himself. If he couldn’t even say the words “pregnancy test” now, what was he going to do when Allison required the same errand of him?  
“No! We need to get Claire a…” And here, he ducked, lowering his voice, as if anyone they had any contact with could overhear them. “…pregnancy test.” 

Brian blinked. Then, very slowly, his eyes nearly outgrew their sockets. 

Nodding, he reached into his wallet and left five bucks on their table before beginning to pack up his things. “My sentiments exactly. Come on, we need to get to the pharmacy before it closes.” 

As they left the café, Bri craned his head to regard Andy. The crimson was completely gone now, though a hint of blanched white had taken its place around the edges of his complexion. “Uh, do you really think that she’s…I mean, that Claire’s…?” 

He blushed, unable to form the words either. At least Andy wasn’t alone. 

Chuckling incredulously, he answered, “I don’t know, man. But would it make me a bad friend if I kinda hope she is just to see the look on Bender’s face when she tells him?”  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello!  
Two parter because the first was kinda short. 
> 
> Note 1: K, so a friend alerting another friend, a dude to boot, that yet *another* friend needs a pregnancy test? Sounds insane, right? It happened to a friend of mine (whose permish I got to include this little anecdote, as well as to describe it here), which was where I got the inspo. We're 22-23, she's freaking out because she's late, another friend of ours *also* freaks out and calls her now husband's best friend, who works at a pharmacy, to bring her a pregnancy test on the way home. He tells his coworker. Now-husband is away visiting his grandma. So in the end, we all knew before he did. They have 3 daughters now. That one is nine. 
> 
> Note 2: Leo Burnett Worldwide is a legit ad agency in Chitown that existed in the 80s. 
> 
> Note 3: "Monthly Hell" is what I've been calling it since I was 11. Also "Hell Week".
> 
> Note 4: The Motorola 9800X was the second mobile phone to be released to the masses. Released in early '89, it was spankin' new when Andy got it. And it was just as shittastic as the first model. The thing was a brick that only got about 20 minutes of talk time before it noped out. It may have been the model Zack Morris used. And yes, its pricetag was a whopping 3-4 grand. #NoRegrats


	4. Chapter 3: Stir Crazy

Chapter 3: Stir Crazy

“You WHAT?!”

“I’m sorry! He’s the only one with a mobile phone! I’m sorry, I panicked!” 

“You’re not supposed to panic! You’re a doctor!”

“Not yet! I’m just a lowly pre-med student! I’m only twenty-one and it’s obvious that you are—I mean, that you may be—I’m sorry, Claire! I freaked out!”

“No shit! Holy crap. Holy crap! I can’t believe you *told* him! Them!”

“You needed a test! So I...”

“Then why didn’t you go down and get one yourself?!”

“Because you live on the freaking nineteenth floor and all the drug stores nearby are gonna close soon!”

“So you just broadcasted that I might be…before I even…damnit, Jackie, why not skywrite the damn thing?!” 

“I said I was sorry!”

Allison Reynolds was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, arms folded over her chest and silently watching the spectacle of the two women arguing before her. Eh, well, she figured Claire was doing most of the arguing; Jackie looked about ready to tear her hair out in apology as the redhead screamed at her for what she’d just done. Namely, phoning Andrew to request her doubtlessly bewildered fiancé to buy a pregnancy test. For Claire. 

Which technically meant that both Andy and Brian had learned of Claire’s possible condition before Claire herself had. And now, five out of six of them were aware of her urgent need for a test or four. All of them except one who’d be directly impacted if those one or four tests blinked positive. 

Honestly, Allison would’ve found the whole state of affairs wildly entertaining if it were happening to people other than her best friends. The situation was like something out of a Steve Guttenberg movie. 

Allison calmly gazed a few feet ahead of her as her redheaded friend, who’d barely had time to even process that she may be carrying a bun in her oven, paced to and fro, pink manicured fingers raking through her hair. “Oh my God. Oh my God! What do I do? What if they tell someone? What if they tell *John*?! Oh, I think I’m going to faint.”

She collapsed into that weird-looking settee, then winced when her back slammed into the thin bars behind her. Scowling at the piece of furniture, as though it had caused all her problems, Claire rose again and threw herself into a cushy loveseat. 

Jackie was wringing her hands. The girl wasn’t much for confrontation. Ally had witnessed her break out in hives over a quarrel with a meter maid once. 

“They won’t tell anyone,” she replied meekly. Oh yeah, she sounded so reassuring. 

“How do you know?!” Claire’s voice was muffled, as her face was buried in a throw pillow. The demand had come out like ‘Owdyano?!' 

Jackie said nothing—at least, no actual words spurt forth. She just sort of stood there, continuing to quake her hands and emitting strange meep noises. Allison was affronted. *She* was the one who squeaked and did weird stuff in this group! 

Unfolding her black leggings-sheathed legs, Allison pushed herself off the floor and nonchalantly walked toward the phone. Once she punched in the number to Andy’s mobile phone (a thing he may have loved almost as much as he loved her), she waited a few rings until he picked up with his usual hesitant response. 

“Clark here. I mean, uh, hello?”

Ally smirked. Her love could be so sure of himself in many situations, but it was this indecisive quality as they all were trying to grow up and navigate the world, as he feigned this facsimile of an adult when she knew quite well that he would often rather be home playing his Nintendo than pretending he had it all figured out—she found that trait to be one of his most endearing. 

“Andy?”

She could practically feel him relax. “Oh, Ally! We got the, um, stuff. We’re just waiting in line to pay.” 

Allison rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “’Stuff’? You can’t even say 'pregnancy test?'” 

The wince was clearly evident in his slightly higher than normal voice. “I’m a guy, okay? I’m trying!” 

“You got me tampons once!”

“Yeah, and it was the most embarrassing moment of my life! I almost got you adult diapers, Al. Adult diapers!”

Allison snorted into the receiver. When he’d arrived back at her place, shopping bag in hand and a hangdog, sheepish look on his face, he admitted that he’d almost purchased a small pack of Depends but was fortunately redirected at the last minute by a kindly, and amused, saleslady. 

After that, Allison had never again relied on Andrew to fetch her own necessities. 'Such a guy sometimes, I swear…' 

“You’re gonna have to step it up when we’re married, Sporto,” she snarked into the phone. The apparatus was odd and antiquated, with this superfluous pointy piece on each end and an ultra-curved base. Claire and her things. “At some point, I’m gonna need you to run out and get me more ‘stuff’.” 

A sigh was discerned through the crackling static that was always present in the background during these calls. “I know, I know. I’m working on it. Bri and I are almost at the front. We’ll see you guys in a bit.”

“Okay. And Andy?”

“Yeah?”

“If you tell anyone, anyone, what Jackie asked you to do, especially Bender, I won’t be able to save you from your fate.” 

A hearty laugh sounded clear as day over the line. “Are you kidding? I’m saying nothing. I wanna see that asshole’s face when she tells him.” 

Allison snickered. She wouldn’t be the one to inform him that Claire would probably tell Bender in private. If, indeed, there was something to tell. Why burst his bubble? 

“See you soon.”

Claire was back on her feet, evidently having recovered from her shock-induced dizzy spell. At least enough to continue yelling at Jackie while alternately pulling her hair by the roots. 

“I really cannot believe you did that! Oh my God, I think I’m having a panic attack. He’s gonna tell. One of them is totally gonna tell before I get a chance to, before I even know, and—“ 

Allison calmly resumed her seat on the floor, her back supported by the leg of an ottoman. “He’s not going to say anything.”

Claire paused in her harangue and swiveled to stare at her. “How do you know?”

“Because he just swore to me over the phone, on the threat of…” Allison gestured Claire up and down, no other words needed to further designate the threat. “Just relax. You’re gonna pull your hair out. And then pace through the floor.”

The ginger-haired princess gawked at her as if bats had just sprouted from her ears. 'Actually, that’d be pretty cool.' “Relax? Are you crazy?! Ugh, what am I talking about? Of course you are.”

Allison scoffed. “Hey! I’m not crazy. I’m eccentric.” 

It was the word Andy’s mom—'My future mother-in-law!'—had used to describe her during an annual fishing trip the family took every summer. Andy had invited her along, where Carol Clark christened her a bit eccentric after she viewed some of her habits—lovingly so. Wishing to sleep under the stars instead of in the cabin with the rest of the family (she was joined by Andy some time during the night; Carol found them snuggled together in the morning, much to his embarrassment). Sneaking into the kitchen at two AM to fix herself a Cap’n Crunch and Pixie Stix sandwich. Baiting the fishing hooks with gummy worms instead of actual worms—a tactic that actually worked. Leading the entire Clark clan in a singalong to Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way” around a flickering campfire. Andy’s father grudgingly included.

Claire shook her head, an incredulous expression on her face. “Okay, fine, whatever! I can’t calm down, Allison! I may be *pregnant*! And everybody knows except the guy who may have *gotten* me pregnant!” 

Once more sinkng down into the loveseat, Claire buried her face in her hands. “As if I’m not stressed enough! I don’t understand how this could happen! I’m on the pill, for Chrissakes!” 

Allison tapped her chin pensively. “Could you have forgotten to take it one day? Maybe?” 

A pause, then Claire lowered her pink-tipped hands and settled them limply in her lap. “I—I don’t know! I’ve been so crazy with finals and—and writing my thesis. I may have missed a day here or…or there. I don’t remember!” 

Jackie sighed, lowering herself into the bizarre gold settee. “Well. That’ll do it.” 

The princess glanced at the future pediatrician out of the corner of her eye. “You really think one or two days would—“ 

“You have to take the birth control pill religiously every day or else the cycle’s rendered null and void and you have to start all over again,” the girl explained with still shaking hands. “Didn’t your gynecologist go over that?”

“…he may have,” Claire admitted. “I was excited and nervous to start the pill. I guess I wasn’t really listening as well as I should have been…” 

Allison could relate to that particular combination of feelings. She was also on a method of birth control, an IUD, recommended by her doctor who knew that Allison could have her head in the clouds at times and thus would be more prone to forgetting to take the BC pill. Something that just may have occurred in her friend, who was now understandably bugging. Andy had been psyched not to have to use a condom anymore, and Allison had to admit that there were benefits to going without. 

“Oh, God,” the redhead continued, groaning. Allison snapped out of her pleasant reverie and watched as she began to massage her temples with her index fingers. “I am so screwed. Like, a ten on the Screwed Scale.” 

“You might not be,” Jackie said unconvincingly. “It…could still be something else?” 

Claire snorted. A habit she’d picked up from Bender to express disdain. “So, I could either be pregnant…or I could have some kind of horrible disease. Great! Perfect. Fucking peachy.” 

Jackie raised her shoulders to her ears helplessly. 

The phone rang. Claire had once again buried her face in the cushions and did not appear desirous to move, and Jackie just sat there biting her nails nervously. Blinking slowly, exasperatedly, Allison pulled herself off the floor for the second time and trudged to the chiming phone. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” she droned before bringing the handle to her ear. “’Lo?” 

There was a brief hesitation. “Miss Standish?”

Allison bade her voice sound perkier and more…Claire. “Yes, this is, like, she!” 

In her peripheral vision, she glimpsed the actual Claire lift head from the pillows, her ginger hair now a bird’s nest. Her dark eyes were scowling at her. She knew what Ally was doing. 

A bit of tension eased from the disembodied voice on the other end. “This is Olivier, the maître ‘d. Two men by the names of Clark and Johnson wish to be allowed upstairs. Do you know these men?” 

“Totally. Please, Olivier, send them up. And, like, thanks!”

When Allison hung up the phone, Claire hurled the pillow at her head. “I do not talk like that! You made me sound like an airhead!” 

Jackie, at least, had stopped gnawing at her fingernails and was now fighting a smile. 

A knock sounded on the door of apartment 1907 a few minutes later, and Allison crossed to the foyer to answer it. Andy and Brian stood on the other side, framed by the too-dim lighting of the sumptuous maroon and dark oak corridor that just screamed “rich people live here”, the former brandishing a white plastic bag. Wordlessly, her fiancé held it aloft, as if to prove a job well done. 

Stepping aside to allow them to pass over the threshold, Brian shed himself of his coat in the front hallway and immediately approached his girlfriend. They spoke briefly, then hugged not so briefly, while Andy bestowed a kiss to Allison’s lips. Before he could get a word in edgewise, Claire materialized from out of nowhere, grabbed the bag, and sprinted to the bathroom. The slamming of the door reverberated throughout the apartment. 

Andy winced, then gazed down at Allison. “So, uh, do you think she’s really…?” 

She craned her neck toward the closed bathroom door. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

*

Brian Johnson had never felt particularly comfortable in his friends’ N. Columbus Drive apartment. Mirroring the awkwardness he’d experienced whenever he was in the Standish home on the posh Sycamore Avenue back in Shermer. The Standishes lived in an enormous white and brick Tudor, one with stately columns and a wraparound porch, that was all old money on the outside and modern 80s polish and spiraling staircases on the inside. Honestly, the place was like a museum—it was very beautiful, very cold, and you weren’t allowed to touch anything. Mrs. Standish had smacked his fingers with a turn of the century Japanese hand fan when he’d brushed them against an old grandfather clock in the parlor once. 

He had no idea how Claire had lived there for eighteen years. No wonder she’d left practically the minute she graduated. Her brother, Josh, too. 

The apartment wasn’t as museum-ish as the house in Shermer, but it was still filled with many an outrageously expensive item. Some things had been brought over from Claire’s old bedroom, but much of this stuff, from the furnishings to the electronics, were recent acquisitions. From the sumptuous leather couches to the chrome refrigerator in the kitchen to the latest model Panasonic TV, being here tended to smack Brian over the head with how different he and his friend really were, how utterly rich the Standishes were, and how lucky Claire was to have been born into such a family. At least monetarily speaking. Brian wasn’t fooling himself that Richard and Nora Standish were ever going to win Parents of the Year. 

The whole of the place generally had Claire’s imprint on it, but there were touches of Bender also. The dark leather armchair. The NES system atop the top-of-the-line VCR. The Jessica Rabbit standee in the corner, which Brian knew had taken some convincing on John’s part when he showed up with it one day. Bender was a proud guy, and stubborn to a fault. He would not accept any piece of furniture, any electronic, any cardboard cut-out of a sexy cartoon character he hadn’t purchased himself. 

Brian figured this was to justify Claire’s father paying the rent for this amazing place. In his mind, anyway. 

Yes, Brian felt weird here, around all this money, though it had been his friends’ home for nearly four years now. At least Jackie was here with him. She always made him feel less clumsy and awkward and like the odd one out. 

Jackie. He glanced down at her, her dark head resting on his shoulder, and smiled. Brian had met her a little over a year ago in their shared Medical Terminology 102 course. They were assigned partners in the weekly labs. His girlfriend liked to joke that they fell in love over a fetal pig dissection.

Now, fourteen months later, he often still couldn’t believe that such an intelligent, interesting, beautiful girl wanted him. 

He was glad that his parents liked her. Because Brian had never been very good at standing up to them, but he would’ve forced himself over Jackie if he’d had to. 

If only Mr. Takahari didn’t disapprove of him so stridently. Brian sighed. He wasn’t used to parents or authority figures so outwardly disliking him. Around them, Brian was soft-spoken and respectful. He earned fantastic grades. He would never dream of stepping out of line or putting Jackie in a situation where she was uncomfortable. But her father disapproved of him still, considered him a distraction from his daughter’s studies. 

He didn’t know what else could be done to win the man over. Andy assured him to be patient. Bender suggested a stink bomb.

“What are you sighing about?” Jackie asked now, staring up at him from behind her glasses. To Brian, her voice sounded like wind chimes. 

His lips thinned. “I, uh, was just thinking about the show next we—next week. And Claire. And, um, what’s happening.”

“Uh huh.” 

By her wry tone, she didn’t buy that for a second. Brian knew she hated when he beat himself up over what her father thought. 

Jackie reached down and grasped his hand. “Brian, please don’t do that.”

He furrowed his brow. “Do what?”

She exhaled, blowing a strand of ebony hair out of her face. “That thing you do. You know, where you get lost in your own head and drive yourself crazy?” 

On the tip of Brian’s tongue to reply was 'The fact that your dad hates me is making me insane', but he was saved by the bell before he had the chance to voice that dubious response, which he knew would’ve only led to an argument. Jumping at the too-close, shrill ringing of the telephone, he hesitated only a second before realizing he was nearest and reached over to the side table to pluck it from its hook. 

“Uh, hello? I mean, um, room 1907. The Standish-Bender apartment? Um, speaking?” 

There was a momentary pause, then a familiar guffaw. “Nice, dweebie. Way to answer. Really. Couldn’t have done better. Oscar-caliber performance.” 

Brian grimaced and ducked his head a bit. “Oh. H—hey, Bender.” 

Upon uttering the name, both Andy and Allison, who’d been engaged in quiet conversation across the living room, quickly swiveled in the direction of the phone. Brian locked eyes with his friends’ slightly widened ones and gnawed on his lower lip, a nervous habit. 

“I know, it’s crazy. Me calling my own place.” He could hear dripping sarcasm in John’s voice. As usual. “Listen, Big Bri, is Claire around?”

Unconsciously, his gaze ticked to the still closed bathroom door, the wedge of yellow light beneath the jamb the only indication that someone was inside. Andy, Allison, and Jackie’s regard followed suit. 

The first reply to formulate on Brian’s tongue was “Uh, why?” before the words could reach his brain. He closed his eyes tightly, annoyed with himself. Beside him, Jackie pursed her lips. 

There was another beat of silence. He hoped that he had not just caused problems between his friends or anything. “I wanna tell her I ran into Vernon and he’s taking me to see Sesame Street on Ice. I just can’t keep it in any longer; I’m so excited!” 

In spite of himself, Brian laughed, and only half of it was awkward. “Hilarious, Bender.”

“Seriously, dork. Where is she?” 

Once again, Brian glanced at the closed door of the toilet. “She’s in the, uh, bathroom.” 

Across the room, Andy and Allison shared an unsure frown. Jackie inched ever closer to him, trying to listen in. 

On the other end, Brian discerned a distinct exhalation. “Still barfing, eh? What the hell did she eat, toxic sludge?”

Not exactly. Wincing again, he stuttered, “I—I, um, don’t know?” 

“Well, just tell her I’ll be back late tonight. Overtime. Gotta finish this big ass house in Lake Forest ASAP. The buyer’s breathing down our necks. ‘I assumed you all would’ve been laying down flooring by now. You’ve barely finished the framing or started the electrical. I’m not paying you to sit on your hands and giggle.’” Bender had adopted an affected high-hat accent, intentionally sounding like a pompous ass. “We’ve only been at it for less than two months. And we had to clear all these trees because he wanted the house in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Stupid richie fuck.” 

Brian had to grin. Can always count on John to be his delightful self. “Sure, I’ll tell her.”

“What are you doing there anyway? Thought you didn’t like the apartment.” 

A pointed icicle lodged itself inside him, at the base of his stomach. Brian felt his complexion blanch as he locked eyes once more with his friends and stammered out a hopefully adequate response that wouldn’t end up with him getting his ass delivered to himself. “Um, I, err, that is, Jackie and I wanted, um, to stop by. Because Claire has—hasn’t been feelig well.” 

Brian’s uncle, who worked for the CIA in Virginia, had told him during Christmas one year that, when lying, stick to the truth as much as possible. That bit of advice had always stayed with him. It’d echoed in his head when he told his parents that he got Saturday detention because he’d stolen Dad’s flare gun to show his friends and it went off in his locker. Just as it did now, as he carefully walked eggshells around Bender, who still had no idea that he may have gotten his girlfriend pregnant. 

“Ah,” John answered; Brian let out a silent breath of relief. “Thanks for braving North Columbus to check her out, Brainiac. And thank Lady Brainiac for me, too. Gotta jet or else the foreman’s gonna have my ass. Later, dork.” 

“Later, Bender.” 

When the line went dead and Brian hung up the phone, his two friends across the room approached him. Jackie stared a hole in the side of his face. “Well?” Andy asked hesitantly. “What’d you say to him?”

“The truth. I just left the ‘Oh by the way, Claire may be pregnant’ part out of it.” Brian shrugged, staring at his lap, then at the closed bathroom door, then at his lap again. “I told him she was still sick and Jackie and I were checking, uh, up.”

“Stick as close to the truth as you can,” Allison recited, nodding. “A favored tactic among undercover spies. The Resistance touted it during World War II.”  
Brian wondered if his uncle was an undercover spy. After all these years, he still had no idea what, exactly, the man did at Langley. 

Oh, but he hated keeping secrets. He had the capacity—the fact that the real reason behind the one splotch on his permanent record was still kept tightly sealed from his parents after five years was proof of that—but when he was anxious, he tended to babble. And when he babbled, stuff just poured out of his mouth like word diarrhea. Bender was one of his closest friends, but the guy also had the ability to make Brian crazy nervous. It was actually a miracle he hadn’t blurted it all out over the phone just now. 

“He’s working late,” he added, playing with his fingers in his lap. 

Jackie’s lips thinned and she, too, turned to stare at the closed bathroom door. “Something tells me she’ll still be awake.”

*

Claire’s friends were in the living room watching "Full House". 

She could hear the damn soppy, cheesy theme music blaring from the 32 inch Panasonic her dad had bought her for her twenty-first birthday while in Tokyo on business. 

Everywhere you look  
Everywhere there’s a heart, there’s a heart  
A hand to hold onto  
Everywhere you look, everywhere you go  
There’s a face, there’s a face  
Of somebody who needs you 

Claire scowled nastily into the mirror where she was gripping the sides of the sink. She really hated that show. John was right. The whole sitcom was nothing but, in his words, “a sophomoric toothache wrapped in a pretty primetime bow”. Fucking “TGIF”. There was no “Thank God It’s Friday!” for her, not today. 

When you’re lost out there  
And you’re all alone… 

'I feel lost. I feel alone. Where’s *my* kitschy theme music?' 

Six tests. She had taken six tests. All different kinds. Andy had done as Jackie requested—'I still cannot believe she called him; I could murder if I didn’t feel like dog crap run over twice'—and obediently fetched a bunch of various brands of at-home pregnancy test. Clearblue. EPT. Wondfo. First Response. There were also a couple of hCG tests. All required different waiting periods. All whose directions Claire had spent an inordinate amount of time obsessing over and following to the tee so as not to screw anything up. 

She didn’t need to be any more screwed, thank you. 

One hour. Claire had been in the bathroom for one hour. Over one hour. Each test looked like a miniature chemistry experiment upon being opened. Now finished, the eyedroppers lounged inside six paper cups filled partway with her urine (mixed with odd chemicals that had names she wasn’t even going to try to pronounce). Six tests, six cups, lined up grossly around the bathroom sink, like toy soldiers. Of pee. 

Doubtless, one hour was more than enough time to ascertain if she was gestating a miniature Bender or not. But, for the life of her, Claire could not bring herself to look at any of the results. For, right now, she was at a crossroads. As it stood, at this very moment, she was still Claire Standish, about to graduate from U of C with a Bachelors in Education. Claire Standish, whose major stressors were finishing her thesis on time and studying for finals. After she looked at those tests, she’d either continue to be that person, or…a potential mom and that person. 

The notion kept sending Claire into panic mode. She’d vomited twice since she’d been in here. 

One more time, she reached for one of the Cups O’ Pee. And one more time, her fingers shied away from it as though it was on fire. 

'I can’t do this. My heart’s going to burst out of my chest. I need help.'

Claire reached for the doorknob, slowly turned the brass fixture, and stepped out. Standing just outside the door, she watched as all four of her friends quickly turned to gawk at her in unison. Awaiting the verdict. 

She sighed. “Allison, Jackie? Can you guys…I mean, I can’t…” 

Arms flew up and crashed at her sides helplessly. If there was one thing Claire despised, it was asking for assistance. John called her Princess and Queenie, and although the words had been used as biting insults five years ago, they were now his version of terms of endearment, so Claire rather liked them, even as she rolled her eyes when he got overly dramatic and bowed in her presence. But the last thing she was, despite popular belief, was a damsel in distress. If she had a problem, she damn well figured out a solution.

Alas, Claire had no experience dealing with…this. 

At once, Jackie and Allison rose from the couch; Andy and Brian went back to watching "Full House" once they understood the situation. Andy was chuckling at John Stamos. Claire recognized the hair. 

Once she led her two friends inside the bathroom, Allison silently took in the assembled Cups O’ Pee encircling the sink and nodded. “Can’t bring yourself to look, eh?”  
How does she do that? Ally had to have a bit of innate psychic ability.

She worried her bottom lip between her two front teeth. “I’ve been staring at those cups for an hour. Every time I try, my stomach clenches and I feel like I’m going to throw up.” 

Again. 

Jackie smiled kindly and patted Claire’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go sit in the bedroom? We’ll take a look.” 

Claire nodded and turned on her heel. 'Should I feel weird about allowing someone else to handle something that has my pee on it'? she wondered for a brief second as she trod down the narrow corridor to her and John’s shared bedroom. Well, Jackie was going to have to handle a lot of body waste that wasn’t her own in due time, if she hadn’t already, so better her than anyone else. 'Ugh. Grody. Never understood why people want to be doctors.' 

It was a ridiculous thought as she stood at this Crossroads Moment, and Claire Standish wondered if she was going a tiny bit insane. Sitting gingerly near the edge of the bed, the flannel bedspread wrinkling beneath her butt, she waited. And peered into the full length mirror attached to the wall directly opposite. 

Claire grimaced. She looked a fright. Somehow, this knowledge had escaped her between the hour she had spent taking the tests and staring into the mirror over the bathroom sink. Her ginger hair, usually perfectly styled and coiffed, was frizzy and darting in different directions. Her painstakingly applied makeup had all but melted off. Her skin was wan, magnifying the purplish, bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes, the whites of which were shot through with red. Her reflection was shameful. 

She sighed. Crossed to the white oak vanity she’d had delivered from her old bedroom in Shermer, and ran a brush through her hair. It was one of the few things that screamed Claire in here. While the rest of the apartment boasted her own touch, the master bedroom was all John, for the most part. When she’d convinced him to move in with her, she knew he was going to have reservations or feel like a loaf living in a place like this, that her dad paid the rent for. John was proud and stubborn as hell (which Claire could understand, as so was she), and she’d wanted him to feel at home here, so she let him redecorate as much as he wanted, within reason. As in, like, no pictures of naked Playboy playmates lining the walls or painting the entire place black. 

So, together, they got rid of the carpet in the living room—“Because I will not live with pink carpeting. You may as well take away my Man Card.”—and remodeled to make the bedroom “less girly”, in his words. Out went the wrought iron canopy bed with its fluffy white duvets she’d picked out, replaced with a dark wood Olympic Queen size. The sheets were always a variation of red, black, blue, or gray; she didn’t mind. The Bart Simpson headboard he’d recently bought had taken some getting used to, though. So, too, had the life-size Jessica Rabbit standee, which he’d moved to the living room a few months ago, as it was already getting crowded in here with all his…stuff. John liked his stuff—from the basketball hoop hamper over the bedroom door, to his huge Iron Maiden poster, his VHS collection, and his bulletin board tacked up just to the right of Claire’s vanity, which contained, among other things, concert ticket stubs, magazine cutouts, a Guns N’ Roses calendar, and a few pictures of them taken over the years. Claire couldn’t help but snort at the one of Brian giving John bunny ears, unbeknownst to him at the time (he’d given him a hell of an Indian burn after the Polaroid developed) and smiled fondly at the one of him encircling her from behind that her brother had taken. 

Then, of course, there was Pete, John’s pet ball python. He lived in an enclosure, complete with a little branch, on top of the dresser he’d built by hand about a six months after he moved in. Black and green, Pete had scared the ever-loving crap out of Claire at first. Much like Indiana Jones, she did not do snakes. And she’d been kind of biased against him for helping to ruin Thanksgiving that one time. But Pete quickly won her over. He was shy and oddly affectionate, for a snake. John liked to walk around the apartment wearing him—and she still did not understand how John knew Pete was a him—around his shoulders. 

She still did not particularly like to watch Pete eat, though. Those poor mice. 

Claire studied Pete now, draped as he (?) was over the thick decorative branch. He had eaten that morning, so his snake belly was a bit distended. 

She wondered if her own belly was going to be a bit—or more than a bit—distended soon enough and asked herself where the hell Jackie and Allison were.  
A minute later, as if summoned, Allison appeared, gazing down at a set of directions. In the other hand was clutched one of the tests’ results. 

Claire gazed at her friend’s perplexed visage. “Well?”

“Sorry. They’re a little confusing. And they each tell you to do something different,” Allison explained, eyes not lifting from the paper in front of her. “Okay, so, this one says…if it’s blue, you’re pregnant, if it’s pink, you’re not.”

A nod, a nibble of the lip. Allison took a deep breath, raised her other hand, and studied the test. 

And frowned. “Oh. Oh.” 

Claire’s heart hammered against her ribcage. “What ‘Oh’?! For God’s sake, spit it out, Allison!” 

Ally winced, and slowly spun the test around. “Um, it’s blue.”

Steam roared in Claire’s ears. She really, really was going to faint this time. Gripping the flannel bedcover with white knuckles, she struggled not to fall off the earth.  
“Don’t panic! It—it’s just one! Five more to go.” Allison’s voice sounded as if spoken through a broken bullhorn, or underwater. “Jackie! The second one.” 

Jackie materialized, studying another test. The look on her face said it all. Jackie Takahari had horrible Poker Face. “Err, well, there are two checks, and two checks means—“ 

“It’s positive.” Claire barely recognized her own voice. It was robotic and monotone. Zombiefied. 

The two girls raced back to the bathroom to gather the other tests. Truly, it was almost comical; she’d never seen either of her friends so animated before. Neither Allison nor Jackie were ever in a particular hurry, in any given situation. Especially Allison. Jackie would sometimes jog if she was late to class, but Ally took pride in taking her sweet time. Allison Reynolds never hurried, was never late; everyone else was simply early. Which was why watching her and Jackie run into walls, and then each other, like they were starring in a Three Stooges film would’ve been entertaining if Claire’s whole little world hadn’t been crashing down around her. 

In fact, she barely heard either of them when they returned, juggling more tests, and stumbling over results she’d already known were positive. Indeed, she wasn’t able to come back to herself, to clear the thundering stampede in her ears, until Ally returned with the last test in hand, one of the hCGs. Her friend unnecessarily held the result to the light, then craned her neck to read the directions in her other hand. 

“Okay. This one is…” Back to the hCG test. Her expression came crashing down. “It’s positive.”

Claire, obviously, knew it would be. But the word echoed in her head anyway. One simple word. Three syllables. And yet, so final. 

Positive. 

*Positive*.

POSITIVE. 

“I’m sorry, Claire,” Jackie was saying—though, again, she heard it as though spoken through a trombone. 

“Do you need us to do…anything?” Allison now, her voice gentler than it ever had been. “You know, *anything*?” 

Claire couldn’t think about *anything*. She could barely even conceive of *anything*. Lying down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, a memory from long ago was brought forth in her mind. 

“…we’ll get the Prom Queen impregnated.” 

'Mission fucking accomplished, John. '

How the hell was she going to tell him?  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three parts this time cus they were all short.
> 
> Note 1: Pregnancy tests back in the 80s were weird af. They really did look like miniature chemistry sets, definitely not the "pee on a stick" stuff we have today. A circa 1985 at-home test is featured in an episode of "GLOW", which takes place in the 80s and is very spandex-y and full of big hair.
> 
> Note 2: "Full House" would've been in its second season in 1989.  
Note 3: Ferris Bueller nod!
> 
> Note 4: Technically, "The Simpsons" didn't premiere until December of '89, but the family had shorts on "The Tracey Ullman Show" so it counts, it counts! "Who Framed Roger Rabbit" had come out the year before. I can see Bender being a fan of Jessica Rabbit. And Bart, for that matter. "Eat my shorts!"  
-Bee


	5. Chapter 4: Say, Say, Say

Chapter 4: Say, Say, Say

It was after midnight by the time Bender arrived home. After freaking midnight. He’d better be getting a massive check for this bullshit. 

Eric, the foreman, and his boss, Big Bill, had asked him to stay beyond his usual five or six clocking out time, as had been the case often lately so that the crew could continue work on that fucking house. He had never worked this late, however. Should be goddamn illegal. Following working steadily on the Lake Forest house until about 10:40, he drove back to the office downtown to complete some paperwork. He had not realized it would take over an hour. 

Exhausted, John scrubbed his face with his palm as he stepped off the elevator and into the nineteenth floor corridor. As he ambled down the hall toward the apartment, he, as always, paused to stare at the genuine Picasso proudly hanging on display on one of the oak-paneled walls. It was so ugly, with its one eye here and the other there, and its nose where its mouth should be and its ear on the top of its head. And yet, according to Claire’s brother, who’d been an art history major at Brown, the thing was worth a cool twelve million easy. 

'Christ Almighty. I will never understand the rich.' 

Upon reaching he and Claire’s shared apartment, he heard a nearby door creak open. Bender quietly sighed to himself; he didn’t even have to turn around to know with whom he was dealing with. Their nosy old bat of a neighbor, Mrs. Lowing. Stooped over with thinning gray hair that had the consistency and appearance of cotton candy, the woman looked 100 but was really only in her seventies. She was also, apparently, richer than God, having come from some old money oil baron family. The hag constantly boasted about how she could trace her lineage back to the Mayflower, like sharing DNA with people who brought small pox and pestilence and crazy Puritanical shit to the colonies three-hundred years before was something to brag about. 

Evidently, in Wealthytown, it was. He didn’t get it nor would he ever get it. 

In any event, Mrs. Lowing had despised him since the day he moved into this building four years ago. The old battleax was prejudiced against him from the start, likely because he hadn’t come frolicking in here dressed as a preppy Brooks Brothers clown while saying crap like “Gee golly gosh, this place sure is swell!” 

As such, Bender never wasted an opportunity to piss Lowing off. He intentionally played his heavy metal vomit music as loudly as possible when he figured she was getting ready for bed. He made sure to keep his hair long and, in her presence, in his face, as she’d once snidely made a comment about how “nice boys like that Andrew” keep their hair tidy and well groomed. His hair alone had her convinced that he was a drug addict. 

Fishing the house keys out of his jeans pocket, Bender was about to insert the one Claire had marked “THIS ONE!!” after she grew weary of him forever forgetting which of the little brass things opened which door into the lock when the unfortunately familiar, craggy but also somehow stuck-up voice of his neighbor floated to his ears. “Why are you back so late?”

Bender halted with the key halfway to the doorknob. “Well, Mrs. Lowing, I was just dealing some Quaaludes on Skid Row.”

Of course, Skid Row was in LA. But Lowing didn’t know that. Hell, she probably had no idea what a Quaalude was, either.

“You’ve been returning late rather frequently,” the battleax continued, blatantly accusatory. 

John made a face and pursed his lips. He knew he was not going to get out of this. Turning on his heel, he regarded Mrs. Lowing, Ol’ Low N’ Grout, Not-So-Sweet N’ Low, Night of the Lowing Dead, Low Hanging Fruit, et. al., peering at him half in and half out of 1908. 

Bender crossed his arms over his chest. “Keeping tabs on me, Mrs. L.? I’m flattered!” 

Lowing scowled. She hated it when he called her “Mrs. L.” Which, naturally, was precisely why he did it. “I’m watching you, young man. And I can be very thorough.”

“I’m terrified.” 

Turning again, Bender inserted the THIS ONE key in the lock. He could still feel Lowing’s beady little eyes on the back of his neck. 

;Nosy old bat.' Shutting the door behind him (and double-locking it, as was his residual habit courtesy of living on the Wrong Side of the Tracks all those years), Bender leaned against the door for a moment in relief. Damn but he was tired. He was going to enjoy a hot shower then fall right into bed. Face first, most like. 

Alas, that wasn’t to be, it appeared. For, when he walked through the front foyer and entered the living space, he took in the unexpected sight of the Sport and Dorktron splayed out on the couch, the latter catching major Zs with his mouth wide open and the former watching a rerun of the Dick Van Dyke Show on Nick at Nite. 

A single dark brow rising, Bender glanced at the clock on the microwave in the adjacent kitchen. 12:39. He had not completely lost track of time. So far. 

So, what the fuck?

“If you guys are planning a slumber party tonight, might I suggest s’mores? And, ooh! Can we build a campfire?!” 

Sporto jerked wildly, hilariously, causing the legs propped up on the coffee table before him to slip, and he almost crashed ass-first to the floor. Damn, so close. 

The Sport met his gaze. He wore a…very odd expression on his face. It was something between eager and constipated. “Oh! Hey, Bender!” 

His voice sounded weird, too. Much too high. Like the fourth Chipmunk. 

Up went John’s other brow. “You been sucking on helium, Sporto?”

Andy grinned like John figured robots grinned. “Haha, good one. Bri. Bri!” Poke, poke. His pointer finger jabbed Brainiac repeatedly in the shoulder until he, too, jerked awake. “Look! Bender’s back!” 

Dorktron paled. Legitimately blanched, and his eyes widened nearly out of their sockets. “B—Bender! Um, what are y—you doing here?”

The Sport shot Brainiac a look. Big Bri appeared to wish to sink into the couch. 

Bender shook his head. “I live here? Last I checked, anyway.”

The hell was going on?

His answering laugh was too damn high. “Right. Of—of course. Duh.” 

Okay, he didn’t have the patience for this shit tonight. Crossing his arms over his chest, Bender narrowed his dark eyes, glancing between the Dork and the Sport. “What the fuck are you two doing here this late anyway? You don’t exactly appear to be having an impromptu party, unless Nick at Nite and Snoring Soirees are a thing nowadays. And where the hell are your less stupid halves? In fact—“ He gave one cursory sweep around the room. “—where’s mine?” 

Not that Claire was less stupid than he. They were both equally as stupid. 

Dorktron and Sporto shared a look. Then, Brian stared down at his hands in his lap as Andy answered. “Uh, they’re in the bedroom. Your bedroom, I mean.” 

That, obviously, filled Bender’s guttery mind with quite a few pleasant images. Three chicks in his bedroom. But they probably weren’t engaged in what his horny Boy Brain had conjured. 

Probably. 

Bender made a 'get on with it' gesture with his hand. “And? They having a pillow fight or something?”

Yet again, his brain took him to a happy place. Sometimes, he wished he could record his innermost thoughts. He’d make a fortune in the porn industry. 

Sporto and the Dork shared that look again, and Bender was growing increasingly annoyed. He was ultra-tired, he needed a shower ASAP because he stunk of sweat and sawdust, and he wanted a fucking beer. But here these assholes were, being cagey and shit, either intentionally keeping something from him or trying to psych him out for whatever reason. Bender didn’t know or particularly care. He was too damn exhausted for this nonsense tonight. 

Throwing up his arms in exasperation, he barked, “Okay, what?! Fuck’s sake, you two are about as subtle as a tire iron to the forehead.” 

Brian quickly reached for a (probably flat) can of Coke resting on the coffee table and drank from it. Andy rose from the couch. John watched warily as he approached, then patted his shoulder. “Uh, dude. Claire has something to…tell you.” 

His brow furrowed. Opened his mouth to reply. Thought better of it at reading the sincerity on the Sport’s face. 

'Shit. Now what?' 

He’d known something was wrong! When he talked to Big Bri earlier on the phone, the Dork had sounded more skittish and ambiguous than usual. At the time, the Lake Forest house’s richie buyer had been breathing down John’s neck, so he told himself it was just Dorko being Dorko. 

Without a word, Bender shed his denim jacket and walked through the living area, down the hall to the bedroom, a feeling of wary dread hitting the pit of his stomach like a sucker punch. 

In the back of his mind, though it had been five years already, a part of him—an increasingly vanishing part of him as time marched on, but one that still existed nonetheless—wondered when the other shoe would drop. When Claire would just get tired of his bullshit for good and kick his ass out. You know, permanently, not just like when they had a fight and he had to spend a day or two sleeping on Big Bri’s couch. The last few years, he’d had it too good. Good stuff did not happen to him, as his old man had oh so lovingly enjoyed reminding him pretty much every day for eighteen years. 

Standing in front of the closed bedroom door, Bender exhaled through his nose and raked a hand through his hair. Disjointed pieces of whatever conversation the girls were having in there reached his ears, not that they made any sense without context. Whispered snatches here and there. 

“…want to have a…?” 

“…know we’ll support…” 

“…am I going to tell him?”

It was this last that made John’s blood run cold—not an easy feat to accomplish. He pursed his lips. He wasn’t going to get all emotional and girly and shit, no way. Time to face the music like a damn man. 

Whatever that music entailed.

Bender reached for the knob and opened the door. 

All three girls glanced up when he walked in, but only Claire met his gaze. She looked an absolute miserable fright. Usually, she was one of those diamond-in-the-rough pretty criers, characterized by a few tears streaming down her angelic face. Now, conversely, she was fully undone and let go—red hair a mess, face blotchy and crimson, eyes swollen from sobbing. Beautifully broken. 

Something was definitely up.

On either side of Claire were Jackie and Allison, both clutching her hands. The former sitting legs folded on the bed and the latter kneeling on the floor. The two girls looked away, down at their laps. 

Not fucking good. Not fucking good at all. 

'You’re no good, Johnny. You’ll never be good for nothin’. You’re stupid and worthless, a fuckin’ freeloading son of a bitch.' 

Bender forced himself to clear the unwelcome memory of his dear ol’ dad’s voice from his mind. He couldn’t afford to get lost Back There. Not now. 

Narrowing his eyes, John crossed his arms over his chest. “Andy said you had something to tell me.” Now was not the time for nicknames, either.

Claire swallowed harshly. He could practically hear the gulp. 

Allison rose from her spot on the floor, and Jackie clambered off the bed. Both gave Claire’s hands a squeeze—for support, he figured, whatever the support was necessary for. 

“Uh, we’ll leave you guys alone,” Allison said before departing. Jackie, on her heels, closed the bedroom door behind her. 

John walked further into the room, glancing between an obviously distraught Claire and a recently fed Pete, his beloved ball python, languishing comfortably in his habitat. He needed to give Pete a cricket or two later. 

If there was a later. 

Bracing against the wardrobe he had built, Bender stared down at Claire, trying to ignore the clenching of his stomach. “Well?”

' Fuck. Shouldn’t have had those fish tacos for din.' 

Claire sighed. Raked a hand through her own already messed-up hair. Then gestured to the white wicker chair at her vanity. It was oversize, with a cushion in the shape of a heart. “You better sit down.”

Bender’s expression remained unchanged—flat like stone on the outside while, inside, his thoughts were going a mile a minute as he attempted to grasp at some semblance of mental stability. Had he done something? He didn’t think he’d done anything. Or said anything particularly offensive. But who the fuck could keep track anymore? Maybe he had and he just hadn’t realized… 

Or, worse, maybe she met someone. Some kid from school? Probably a richie. Some lame as fuck asshole her mother would doubtless approve of full stop. A pretty boy honky with perfectly coiffed hair, a wardrobe full of Lacoste, and a trust fund. 

Bender’s fingers curled into fists, already picturing punching the nameless idiot in the face. 'Probably some douche named Chad…' 

Also in the back of his mind these last four years, he’d worried that Claire would find someone else at that university she went to. After all, there were thousands of dudes there, and Claire Standish was a catch—hot, young, and boasting the Standish name. Her father owned half of fucking Chicago. Everyone knew who the Standishes were. 

Those d-bags already had one up on him, at least in Nora Standish’s eyes. Well, two, really. They were college educated, and they weren’t John. 

“I think I’ll stand.”

Claire’s eyes hardened, lips transforming into a stubborn line, and for a second, she was the same old Princess again. “John. Just…trust me. Sit down.” 

Bender rolled his eyes. He hated being told what to do but acquiesced anyway, pulling out the chair and throwing himself into it. The stupid heart cushion was actually rather comfortable. “Your wish is my command, Princess. Continue.”

But she didn’t continue. She just sort of…sat there. Staring at her hands in her lap, which were fidgeting with each other. She opened her mouth, closed it. Opened it again. Looked as if she was a hairsbreadth away from bursting into tears all over again. 

Indeed, all Claire could manage was “I…I…Oh, God…” before burying her head in her hands. 

John’s lips twitched downwards. Part of him, a large part, an instinctual part, yearned to go to her. Comfort her. He’d never been any good at that, the comforting thing, but it was a skill he’d tried to teach himself living with Claire. She could be an emotional woman. Especially, err, during that time of the month. 

He did not think this was about just being on her rag. 

John sort of huff-sighed and leaned forward in the chair, over his knees. “Claire, just…say it. Please.” 

It was probably the 'please' that did it. John Bender wasn’t the type to use that word often, for anything, in any given situation. So, when it *was* used, those around him knew he meant business. Lifting her head from her hands, Claire stared at him. Her face was still red, but she was also pale underneath the maroon, and there were heavy bags lining her eyes. She looked tired. More tired than him, somehow, and he had just worked a fucking fourteen-hour day. 

Claire reached across the divide and took his hand. Also uncharacteristic. When they were…affectionate…things tended to go from zero to sixty pretty damn quick. Little gestures weren’t really part of their relationship. That was more a lame Dorktron and Lady Dorktron thing. 

“John, I…I mean, I need to tell you that I…Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’ll just show you.” 

He watched, entirely bewildered, as she clambered off the bed and raced out of the room. When she returned a few minutes later, in one hand was clutched, he thought, a flattened box and in the other…one of the paper cups from the medicine cabinet. With a little white stick in it. 

His confusion only magnified when she wordlessly handed him both objects. 

“What—what am I looking at?” There was obviously some kind of liquid in the cup, and his gaze kept ticking between it and the flattened box.  
Claire looked at him like he was an idiot. Wouldn’t be the first time. “John. Turn the box over.” 

John did so. And silently read the label staring up at him. 'EPT: The Error Proof Test. Virtually 100% accurate. In-home early pregnancy test.'

When Bender understood what he had in his hand, his eyes widened, his jaw unhinged, and the empty box went floating harmlessly to the floor. He raised his head, staring across at his girlfriend, who looked at him like she didn’t know whether to be terrified or nauseas. 

In that moment, he could very much relate.

“Claire,” he started, leaning forward a bit more. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re…” 

Wordlessly, she nodded. 

For a minute, just a minute, Bender grasped at the only stupid straw he could think of. “Is this an April Fools’ joke? Because it’s *not* funny, Claire. I didn’t even plan a prank this year, I swear! I’ve been too busy—“ 

Claire pushed herself off the bed, bent down, and picked up the empty box. She looked exasperated. “No, you ass! I didn’t even realize what *day* it was. I haven’t been keeping track of the days at all for at least a week! I’ve been puking my guts out! Don’t you remember when I nearly spewed red, white, and blue all over the dining room at Peggy Sue’s?” 

Bender swallowed past the dry lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. He could not believe that he hadn’t made that connection. “You…you said you ate something weird.” 

She sank back down on the edge of the bed, lightly fingering the wrinkled box, and shrugged. “I lied. You’re not the only one who can lie.” 

John winced. Touché. He’d told some doozies in the past. He was working on that. 

“Look inside the cup.”

“Huh?” Holy shit, was he articulate tonight or what? 

Claire waved to the paper cup with the white stick poking out the top of it clutched in his left hand. Bender was mildly surprised by its continued existence. “The paper cup. It’s blue, the…liquid. Blue means positive.” 

He peered over the rim. It definitely indeed was blue. A deep, toilet-water-after-bleach kind of blue. 

“Aren’t there false positives all the time with these things? Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe we should—“ 

Claire shook her head. “I took six.” 

Well, that was that, then.

“Fuck. Holy fuck.” Bender leaned back in the chair, grateful for the heart cushion. 

Once more, Claire buried her face in her hands. He watched her through half-mast eyes. 

She was moderately shaking, limbs quivering as though the infamous Chicago chill had seeped deep in her bones. John could hear his heart thudding inside his chest. Ka-thump. Ka-thump. Ka-fucking-thump. Simply to say, for the second time in his life, Bender was utterly and completely bewildered. The first time would be five years previous, when Claire showed up to let him out of that closet. He believed he was wearing much the same expression now as he was then. 

The difference being, of course, that the then was a delightful shock. The now, on the other hand…he wasn’t sure what this was. 

As what habitually tended to happen in moments of deep worry or stress, thoughts of John’s father popped up in his mind, mental images his brain flicked through like a perfectly dreadful flipbook. A projector he couldn’t turn off. Jake Bender putting out cigars on his skin. Jake Bender holding his palms over the stove’s burners (it had taken a while for Claire to convince him that he needn’t wear those cracked leather gloves around her, truly). Jake Bender punching him in the eye for coming home late. 

Turning into his old man was John’s worst nightmare. And here he was, faced with the prospect of an unexpected kid—just like his parents had been. They’d only been twenty and twenty-three when his ma fell pregnant with him. They rushed to get married, because that was what people did back then, he supposed, because it was “the right thing to do”, not out of some deep-seeded love or anything (though Jake sometimes claimed he had “learned” to love his wife). Hell, his folks had only been dating two months. John knew this because, growing up, he was constantly reminded by said folks that he’d ruined both their lives with his mere existence. 

The variable here was Claire. Unlike the Benders’ marriage—which acted as a giant gaping void on the best of days and a hellfire of rage and broken dreams on the worst—he legitimately loved Claire. But, fuck. John wasn’t sure if his old man had always been an asshole or if his mere emergence into the world turned him into one. And that horrified him. Because even the thought of hurting Claire… 

A sob broke through Bender’s thoughts. Jerking his head from where it had evidently been staring at his lap and refocusing his eyes, he observed Claire, eyes red and swollen, alternately looking across at him—not glowering, just looking—and idly pulling at a loose thread in the flannel duvet. John shifted in the stupid wicker chair. She was looking at him like he had answers, when, in fact, he had none.

“God,” the fucking beautiful sobbing mess that was his ginger-haired Princess exclaimed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand in a gesture that was very not pristine. Her gaze met his, and he forced himself not to squirm under the intensity of it. “You know, a week ago, I was just worried about, like, passing my exams and finishing my thesis. Normal college stuff. But—“ 

“You knew about this for a week and you didn’t tell me?” 

The words had just spurted forth without his consent—“word diarrhea”, was how Big Bri described this phenomenon. At his accusation, Claire looked a combination of murderous and genuinely upset, and John hated himself. 

“No!” she cried, slamming her arms down at her sides, a gesture she performed sometimes when she was really angry. Bender secretly loved it on most occasions. But not this one. “I had no idea! I knew something was wrong because I’ve been throwing up all week, but I didn’t put two and two together…or maybe I didn’t want to. And then Allison asked when my last period was and I couldn’t remember but before that Jackie freaked out and called Andy to get me pregnancy tests before the pharmacies closed so he knew even before I did and then he and Brian arrived tonight with the tests and I took them but I couldn’t bring myself to look at the results so Ally and Jackie did for me and we were sitting here for hours while I stressed over telling you and I should feel better but I’m *not*. I’m, like, utterly stunned and terrified and—and blind-sided, so if you can just stop looking at me like that, that’d be...that’d be great…” And she crumpled, like she had expelled all her energy, shoulders slumping, posture drooping, another sob ripping from her throat. 

'Fuck'. And Bender crumpled, too. Because this wasn’t about just him, not even mostly him. He had to shove his own shit to the side and deal with it later, if it came to that. Right now, he had a girlfriend who was weeping and angry and scared shitless; John knew when he had to be the strong one. When he had to step it up. 

Exhaling through his nose, Bender rose and crossed the two feet or so to the bed, where his pile of girlfriend was sitting, crying her eyes out and breaking his fucking heart. “Claire…” 

He gingerly lowered himself on the edge of the bed beside her. Claire’s arms were enfolded around herself protectively, continuing to emit those dry, choking cries that were like individual pinpricks to his chest. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. 

“Claire,” John begged, noting how strained his own voice sounded to his own ears. “Come on, babe. Please don’t do that…” 

The longer he and Cherry were together, the more Bender hated hearing her cry. Not that he found it annoying or anything, it wasn’t that, he just couldn’t stand to see her so upset. Especially if he was the cause of it, as was often the case.

She turned and buried her head in his shoulder, muffling her sobs in his gray t-shirt. John rubbed her back with hands that were still lightly scarred from an unwelcome run-in with his jackass of a father and a stove. He didn’t know what else to do. Five years, and he still wasn’t completely adept at this comforting thing. He tended to get awkward and uncomfortable, though he was trying. But right now, “trying” wouldn’t cut it; he had to grow a fucking pair and help her to the best of his ability. Or at least put in the damn effort. 

He held her for a few minutes until her sobs gradually began to reduce, if not cease entirely. When she pulled back, just far enough to look him in the eye, he noted that her complexion had calmed a bit, but her eyes were still red and strands of her hair were sticking to her wet face. Without thinking about it, he reached out a hand to wrap a silky tendril around her ear. 

When Claire spoke, the words were strained and small and scared and fucking tugged at him. “What do we do?”

John minutely shook his head. When it came to this, he didn’t have many answers. But he knew what to say to this one. Sort of. “I can’t answer that.”

Welcome back that wrinkle between her eyes, but instead of being an angry wrinkle, it was a confused wrinkle. “Why not?”

Bender shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck like he did when he felt insecure, and lowered his arm when he realized what he was doing. He moved an inch closer to her on the edge of the mattress. “Because it’s your body? I don’t know.” He sighed, pushed his hair back from his face. “You’re the one who’d be affected, Claire, at least physically. You’re the one who’d be carrying…it.” 

Couldn’t even say 'baby'. What a fucking pussy.

Claire glanced away, studying her nails. They were chipped, Bender noticed. The Princess’ nails were never chipped. 

“But…” She still wasn’t meeting his eyes. “…don’t you have an opinion? Or, like, thoughts or whatever?”

“Of course I do.” John cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “But, like I said…it’s not my body. I’m not the one who’s gonna be having it.”

And here, those lovely lips of hers curved up a little, through her panic and uncertainty and anguish. “I’d hope not. You’d be a medical miracle.” 

Bender answered her half-smirk with one of his own. “Don’t know. We’d make a lot of money on the talk show circuit. Oprah would go apeshit.”  
Claire’s laugh was also a half-choke. 

Sobering a bit, he tugged her to his side. “Look. Whatever you…choose, you have my support. All right?” 

Her striking, dark eyes shone as she gazed up at him. “You promise?”

Bender performed the sign of the cross. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“No matter *what* I choose?”

“Yeah.” Another shrug, then a wince. “Unless it’s giving the kid up to a family of circus clowns. I don’t want any contact with clowns. I don’t like clowns.” 

Claire snorted in laughter, his intended purpose. “You and your clown thing.” 

“It started when one tried to grab me on the boardwalk when I was five! Okay, I just don’t like clowns!” John shuddered with the recollection. 

When she was done laughing, Claire replaced her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t *know*. My mom raised me to believe abortion is wrong, that is what *she* believes. But then my friend Linda had one in high school, in junior year. I went with her to drive her home after. It was okay, she said she was okay, but…she seemed sad a lot afterwards.” A beat, and then, “She told me at the time it was the hardest thing she ever did, but she doesn’t regret it.” 

John hadn’t known that. It was not an anecdote she’d ever shared with him prior to this conversation. He figured she never had reason to until now. It meant that she had more experience than he with this…topic, having had a friend go through it, having been there for her. The closest he’d ever come to facing the prospect of abortion was listening to his buddy, Ash, and his girlfriend fight because she missed her rag and she thought he knocked her up. 

“And…and your old man?” He stared down at the top of her head, tangled red hair falling over his shoulder. 

Claire shrugged to the best of her ability in her position. “He’s more liberal-minded than she is. I mean, when Josh came out, he’s the one who stood up for him to Mother. Eventually.” 

John nodded. He remembered that. Josh-slash-Clarence had come out of the proverbial closet three years before, though Claire had known of his sexual preferences for years before that. She told him, with her brother’s permission, the day before he came out to his parents. It was whatever, didn’t bother him, “whatever floats your boat”, as his grandpop used to say. It had nothing to do with Bender anyway. Just as long as Josh wasn’t, like, into him or anything. Josh assured him that he was not, laughing. 

That, naturally, had made Bender indignant. There were plenty of dudes out there who would be all over him! All over!

In any event, Nora had gone berserk and thrown him out of the house, where he briefly lived again after losing his job. He and Claire let him crash in the apartment for a few days. It was her dad who showed up to collect his son, then, when his wife exploded, he told her to stuff it. 

Not for the first time, or the one-hundredth time, Bender wondered why the Standishes were still together in the first place. 

“Maybe *he* at least won’t disown me.” 

Bender jerked himself out of the past. “Nah, he won’t disown you. You’re his precious princess. His little girl. The jewel of his eye—“ 

“I get it, John.”

“I honestly don’t think there’s anything you can do to make that man see you as anything less than exalted. You can be on trial for brutally murdering a whole shitload of people and he’d be like ‘My sweet girl murdered those people the best! And no one can tell me otherwise.’” 

Claire snickered and lightly smacked his arm. It was true, though. In Richard Standish’s eyes, his daughter could get away with absolutely anything. She was never in the wrong; everyone else was. 

His Princess dangling “I’d hate to tell my dad about this” in front of Vernon had gotten John out of a detention or five. 

Lightly, unthinkingly, he grasped her hand in his own. Claire raised her tear-stained face to regard him. “I don’t know what to do. I just…I need to think about it…” 

John nodded. He had figured she wouldn’t be able to just…come to a conclusion like that. “Take all the time you need, Princess. Well, not all the time. You know what I mean.” He could actually feel himself blushing, though not fully understanding why. 

“Okay.” The reply was barely above a whisper. 

Bender cleared his throat awkwardly, not lifting his gaze from their combined hands. Such a contrast. Her fingers were long and elegant, almost perfectly manicured, while his were rough and short-nailed, with grease and bits of wood-shavings around the beds. He wondered what kind of fingers a kid of theirs would have. “You all right now? Less…panic attack-y?” 

Claire laughed through her nose. “Yeah. I mean, I guess. I was mostly just…worried about telling you.”

Forcing his gaze from their mismatching digits, he turned his attention to her face instead. “Why?”

Another minute lift of the shoulders. “I don’t know…”

“What, did you think I was gonna *bail*?”

Glancing down at her jeans-covered legs, she murmured, “I don’t know what I thought.”

That hurt. But John swallowed past it. Now wasn’t the time, he knew that. Chucking her chin again, he forced her to meet his eyes. “I don’t run away from my…” 

Claire’s answering half-smirk was wry. “Mistakes?” 

He winced, but, “Yeah.”

“Well, it was my mistake.”

John’s brow furrowed. He was doing that a lot during this conversation. “What do you mean?”

Half-revolving, she again began picking at the loose seam in the bedspread. “I missed a pill. In the cycle. I’ve been so preoccupied with…school and shit, I didn’t even think…”

Bender was quiet for a moment, gazed at his knees poking through the faded denim of his jeans. “And…one dose would make that much difference?”

Claire’s shoulders bobbed. “Evidently. Jackie says you need to take it every day or it doesn’t work. The gyno probably told me, but I wasn’t really paying attention…” 

“Nah, don’t blame yourself. It’s on both of us, Princess,” he replied in a low voice, letting his hair fall into his eyes and mock-leering. “We were both avid participants. It’s not like someone held guns to our heads and said—“ 

“John!” Another light smack in the arm. He chuckled, having expected it.

Following a brief silence, Bender recollected something she’d said earlier and raised an eyebrow. “Jackie really called Andy to get you a pregnancy test?” 

The genuine giggle was music to his ears. “Yes! She called him before Ally even asked me when my last period was. It was *so* bizarre. And he was with Brian also.”

“Which means both the Sport and the Dork knew you may’ve been knocked up before you did?” 

She nodded. And they both fell into uncontrollable laughter.

When they calmed down again, Claire, still smiling, asked him what was going through his mind when Andy told him she had something to tell him. 

“Honestly?” He rolled his eyes a little, trying, hoping, to play it off as nothing. Didn’t mean anything that his immediate thought had been… “I figured you had met some other douche. Some richie jackhole with too much gel in his hair Mommy Dearest would wholeheartedly approve of.”

Claire blinked. Bender couldn’t read the expression on her face, a fact that made him twitchy. Then, she sighed, pursed her still smiling lips, and threw a pillow at his face. “You know, for such a smart guy, you can be a real dumbass sometimes.” 

John encircled the pillow, and her, and lay down atop the bed. “So I’ve been told.”  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: So, it took me a minute to finish this part. I kept editing it then reediting it and redacting and rewinding. The Conversation had to be a delicate balance while also staying true to the characters and keeping a sort of retro 80s mentality on stuff like this. What mainly helped me finish it was this book I'm reading about the making of some of those Gen X movies (it's called "You Couldn't Ignore Me If You Tried" by Susannah Gora, it's pretty sweet if y'all haven't read it) and in the TBC chapter (which is the first chapter because duh) in his interview, Judd Nelson said something that stuck with me: Bender may have been an angry kid, but he certainly knew right from wrong. It's kinda stayed with me the whole chapter. (He went on to add, in the "St. Elmo's Fire" chapter, that Alec basically had no idea wtf, which we all knew). 
> 
> Note 2: I looked it up, Nick at Nite launched in 1985. Which means it is now playing shows that debuted when it launched. That's meta or full circle or some shit. 
> 
> Note 3: In every apartment complex, in every shared dwelling, I have had a nosy neighbor. This cannot just be a New Jersey thing. 
> 
> Note 4: They are all douchebags named Chad.
> 
> Note 5: Claire's dad, at the beginning of the movie, was pretty placating even knowing his daughter skipped school to go shopping. My dad would've grounded my ass for at least a weekend. I get the feeling there's not much Claire can do to whip Mr. Standish into a frenzy.  
-Bee  
Oh, and read and review and stuff.


	6. Chapter 5: You Keep Me Hangin' On

Chapter 5: You Keep Me Hangin' On

Father Ramirez looked like a balder Chevy Chase. 

Allison could not get over it as she sat across from the man in question, her intended by her side. The guy was Clark Griswold’s twin. Or maybe an alternate universe version of the original Not Ready For Primetime Player. She knew the third installment of Back to the Future was set to come out next year—Ally had seen the previews during a late-night showing of 'Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure'—but, if Spielberg and co. ever made a fourth, she definitely had a synopsis idea she could pitch. 

And it’d co-star Father Ramirez, Mr. Chase’s lookalike. From the tanned skin to the face shape to the smallish eyes, it was like studying her VHS copy of 'Vacation'. The only difference was the hair. Chevy had a (mostly) full head of wavy brown hair, while the priest before them hardly boasted any. At least on his pate. He had plenty of thin, wiry hairs on his arms and knuckles, though. Allison figured, underneath the black, short-sleeved clergy shirt he wore, his chest was mighty hairy, too. She didn’t want to ask. She didn’t know how to formulate that question to a priest. 

She and Andy were in Father Ramirez’s office at Our Lady of Valor, the Catholic church her fiancé and his brothers and mother belonged to. Indeed, they were dressed up, Andy having gone full preppy with the Dockers and the sweater wrapped oh so casually around his shoulders. Allison felt very unlike herself in a mauve knit dress she’d borrowed from Claire for the occasion. None of her actual clothes were really appropriate “meeting a priest” attire. She did not particularly think the Father would take kindly to Allison’s baggy skirts, torn jeans, and scuffed sneakers. 

Ally laughed through her nose, picturing herself greeting this intimidating man in her fringed Def Leopard tank top and acid wash jeans. He’d probably have a heart attack. Her future mother-in-law sure would. 

Father Ramirez paused in…whatever he’d been saying—something about Adam and Eve, she thought—to regard her over his glasses. Allison squelched the urge to meep. “Is there a problem, Allison?”

'Woops. I guess my laugh was a little less than silent, after all.'

“No problem, Father. Please continue.” Beside her, Andy shot her an affectionate smile and squeezed her hand, held loosely in his own. 

Her soon-to-be husband made all this worth it. She’d walk through the fire for him. 

Or, she guessed, the doors of a church. 

“Good. As I was saying, Eve created the concept of Original Sin through…” 

'Bah. It’s always the girl’s fault, isn’t it? Maybe she *wanted* to eat that apple the whole time. Maybe she grew tired of Adam. She saw Lilith off having a blast with Lucifer and thought "I want in, too!"'

See? This was why she couldn’t jive with religion. It banished all the fun stuff. 

Eh, that and it really pissed her folks off. That was always a plus in Ally’s view. 

Andy and the Clarks were Christians—Catholic and Protestant, if she was being specific—and that was all fine and dandy with her. Andy knew that she was agnostic; he didn’t try to change that or her at all. Her fiancé always said “I started to fall for you when you were in all black with your hair in front of your face and everyone thought you worshipped Satan. And even if you did, that would be cool with me”, which, besides being ridiculously sweet, had also given Ally momentary ideas of becoming a Satanist. How mad would her parents be if she got a pentagram tattoo on her forehead? They’d have to pay attention to her then! 

“…important that you uphold the holy sacraments of marriage. You are representing O.L.V. and the Church…”

“Yes, Father. We understand completely.” 

'Blah, blah, blah'. Ally may have been wearing a smile, for Andy’s benefit, and for Carol’s, but this whole process had her inwardly scoffing. Who the hell needed to be interviewed to get married? She felt like she was being prosecuted for a crime and she hadn’t done anything. This time. 

Allison knew how important it was, however, to make a good impression on Father Ramirez—if not to her or even her betrothed, her future mother-in-law. Father Ramirez had been the family’s minister since before Andy’s older brother, Greg, was born. It meant a lot to Carol to have him officiate, particularly considering Andy was the first of her five baby boys getting married. And Allison actually liked Carol. She was a lovely woman who wasn’t averse to throwing a zinger or two at her sons when called on. Her lasagna was off the charts, too. Ally didn’t want to disappoint her. Carol was a much better mom to her than her own mother was. 

So, here she sat, wearing this knitted, pink thing, legs crossed at the knee, smiling brightly. 'May as well change my name to Claire'.

“That’s an…interesting ring.”

Father Ramirez’s gaze was zeroed in on Allison’s engagement ring, which, granted, was a bit different from the average. The main gem was a big, black onyx, so shiny that she could catch her reflection in the surface. Allison was in love with it. 

Beside her, Andy’s eyes flickered. As did the corners of his lips. 

“Isn’t it?!” Allison’s painted-on smile widened as she brought her hands first to her chest, then to Andy’s bicep. “Andy really gets me.”  
Father Ramirez looked as though he did not know exactly what to say to that. 

“Well!” The man braced his hands on his desk and rose. “I think we’re good here. Andrew, I’ve known you since you were in diapers. I performed your baptism. I’d, of course, be delighted to officiate at your wedding ceremony.” 

Andy climbed out of his chair as well and leaned forward to take the Father’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, Father. We appreciate it.”

He turned to shake Allison’s hand; she noted the brief hesitation. “Allison. Pleasure to meet you, young lady.” 

Ally inwardly grinned. No matter what she looked like on the outside, her “inner Allyness”, as Andy called it, never failed to shine through. “Pleasure’s all mine, Father.” 

Once they were outside the small church, heading to the car parked in the lot, Andy paused mid-stride, gripped her shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “You know, Ally, we don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Have a church wedding. I mean, we could get married anywhere. We can elope to Vegas and get hitched by Elvis, if you want.” Andy half-grinned, undoing the top button of his shirt and loosening his tie. 

Allison’s shoulders bobbed. She wasn’t doing this for herself, God (or whoever) knew. This was for Carol. It was all for Carol. She just had to keep reminding herself of that. “It’s fine, Andy.”

But Andy grabbed her arm just as she was spinning on her heel, making her stop. “It’s our *wedding*, Al. Look.” Expelling a breath of air, he took one of her hands in his and gazed into her brown eyes with his beautiful blue ones. “It would mean a lot to my mom for me to get married in the church, I won’t lie. But it’s *our* wedding. It’s your day, Ally. I want it to be perfect for you.”

When he looked at her like that, when he spoke to her like that, Allison’s knees could’ve melted, melted entirely away, leaving her a big, swoony stump. She never thought she’d ever be the one to go weak in the knees over a guy, and yet here she was—about to get married barely into her twenties, and to a jock of all people, and she couldn’t be happier. Or more excited. 

If you had told a pre-detention Allison Reynolds that any of this was destined to occur, she would’ve asked if you had seen Hashimoto lately. Despite the fact that, technically, the Reynolds were richies—they lived just south of Sycamore on Baron Road—Allison had never quite fit in, had never gained the instant popularity that seemed to be part of the “wealthy parents” package deal. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds had tried to engage her as a child, but when it became obvious that Allison was not interested in the pastimes that her parents deemed acceptable, the type of stuff that her older sister, Eleanor, was into, they pretty much gave up on her. 

As such, while the other girls were having slumber parties and doing each other’s hair, Allison was hanging out alone in the treehouse she’d built by hand. While they were at Toys R Us buying Barbies, she spent most of her time in specialty art shops looking for supplies. While they shopped ‘til they dropped at The Limited and Banana Republic, she tended to hit Sam Goody, Spencer’s, and various thrift stores. By the time she was ten, her parents basically devoted all their time to Eleanor, nine years her senior, and her budding modeling career. 

Now, she had Claire to help her navigate the overwhelming world of fashion and makeup. These days, she found herself sticking to a sort of happy medium between “shopping bag lady” and, well, Claire. She still wore the black shit, though not nearly as much, but paired with other makeup shades and textures her friend had presented to her, the look was less a person hiding and more just an element of a whole. Ally liked wearing heavier black shit at clubs, with more sheer lip gloss and glitter. 

She was still Allison, but a more grownup, confident version. One who was eagerly anticipating walking down the aisle with Andy. 

She just didn’t want to disappoint Carol. She knew how much a church wedding meant to her. 

Still. It felt a bit weird to her, getting married in a church when she wasn’t sure what she believed. 

Allison sighed and tapped a finger to her chin. “Okay, let’s think about this. I don’t mind having a church wedding, but does it have to be at O.L.V.?”

Andy shrugged, stuffing his hands inside the pockets of his Dockers. “It can be anywhere you want. We can get married in one of those drive-thru chapels, it’s cool with me.”  
She laughed, wondering if there was a drive-up menu for those things. “No, I mean…can we pick another place? Another Catholic church?”

Our Lady of Valor was nice and all but rather small and kind of smelled like a dentist’s office. There was also that sea foam green carpeting out in the lobby. And the fact that the exterior was a regular, ordinary house with a crucifix on the roof to designate the building as a church. 

“I guess…” 

Allison brightened. “Then can we find one of those cool gothic cathedrals? You know, with the crumbling edifices and the snarling gargoyles? I think it could be neat to get married in one of those!” 

Andy grinned and took her hand. “I think we can manage that. And I think I know who to call.”  
****

Brian thought he might piss himself. 

Having arrived to the Takahari home to pick up Jackie and her mother for their engagement in the city, having oh so carefully maneuvered himself around the lovely bushels of flowers Mrs. Takahari had planted over the years as he always did, having climbed up the cement porch steps and rung the bell, he expected to be greeted by Jackie’s mother or his girlfriend herself. 

Because Jackie had assured him time and time again while planning this outing that her father would not be in attendance. He was supposed to be in Washington. As in D.C. The nation’s capital. On business. Mr. Takahari was in business and commercial liquidation, which meant that, according to Jackie, he basically “helped eat dreams for lunch”. His company prided itself on sucking up failed small businesses like a vacuum. Mr. Takahari was a capitalist through and through, plain and simple. 

As a senior partner, he was supposed to be in D.C. representing the firm to a failed startup they, it, planned to liquidate. And yet, here he was, the intimidating man himself, staring up at Brian with narrowed, half-mast eyes shielded behind wire rim glasses, frowning through his goatee. Though Brian was taller than Mr. Takahari, the height disparity didn’t make the man any less daunting. 

Brian gulped, suddenly wishing to be anywhere but where he was. 

Mr. Takahari glared and wordlessly crossed his arms. 

“H—hello, sir,” Brian stuttered, not meeting Jackie’s father’s eyes. He wished he had something to do with his hands, something to hold, because they felt oddly empty at his sides right now. “I’m, uh, I—I’m here to p—pick up Jackie. And Mrs. Taka—Mrs. Takahari. We’re, um, going to the opera. In Chicago.”  
Hideo Takahari just looked at him and grunted. 

Brian itched to pull at the collar of his oxford, loosen his tie, but he forced himself to remain still. He was dressed to the nines today, in an expensive formal suit Claire’s brother had loaned him. It was a bit big in the shoulders and butt area, but it looked okay otherwise. A few days previous, his redheaded friend had demanded that he change after seeing his chosen formal wear—he knew that the dress pants and shirt were kind of old—and when he told her he didn’t have anything else, she swiped the Hugo Boss suit. As well as a pair of her father’s Ferragamo shoes. Brian felt antsy in the luxurious brand name clothing; he was literally walking around with a few thousand dollars on his back. But Claire needed a distraction, he knew, from constantly fretting about the unborn baby in her womb, and where to go from here, so he humored her determination to make over everyone. 

He was sorely regretting the Hugo Boss suit now, though. Under Hideo Takahari’s intense stare, Brian was sweating bullets. And he was wearing too many layers. 

Brian fiddled with his hands. “Um, I…sir, I—I, err…” 

Thankfully, Jackie arrived at the door to save him from further embarrassment. Sounding slightly out of breath, she turned to her father and spoke something in quick Japanese. He barked back a return, and, though Brian didn’t understand a lick of the language other than hello and goodbye, he clearly discerned his name. 

Jackie rolled her eyes, said something in return that included her mother’s name as well, and Mr. Takahari gave Brian one last lingering stare before departing. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, stepping fully out the door. “He wasn’t even supposed to be here. The deal fell through, so he came home early.” 

Brian nodded, calming his pounding heart by gawking at the quintessential beauty that was his sweetheart. Red was the color of the evening, and Jackie wore it well. Very well. His “unit” instantly reacted inside his underpants; for a minute, he was disappointed that he and his girlfriend wouldn’t be alone tonight. It was rather difficult to find some time for themselves, especially as Jackie still lived at home here in Lincoln Park. But he liked Mrs. Takahari; it was nice to have at least one of Jackie’s parents on his side. 

Jackie wore a tea length satin dress that flared out at the hips, matching open-toed shoes that click-clacked on the ground as she moved, and had her black hair tied back with a red ribbon. The glasses she usually sported had been set aside, replaced with contact lenses. He knew she hated wearing them; they made her eyeballs itch. But she broke them out for formal occasions. 

What little makeup she wore was light, except for the cherry red of her lips. Yep, Brian was a lucky man. 

A dopey smile crossed Brian’s face as he held out an elbow. “You look beautiful.”

His stutter never failed to disappear around Jackie. 

She blushed, taking his proffered arm. “Thank you. You look good yourself.” She squinted at his suit, brow wrinkling. “Is that Hugo Boss? Where’d you get that?” 

“Claire,” he explained, laughing self-consciously. “Well, her brother, really.” 

A corner of Jackie’s lips quirked. “Of course.” She lowered her voice, as though her parents, still inside, could overhear her. “How is she? I haven’t seen her in a few days. Not since she…” 

'Found out.' Brian mentally filled in the rest of that thought. “She’s, um, okay I—I guess. Worried. Still thinking about what to do. Considering her options.” 

It was still so surreal knowing that Claire was pregnant. At this very moment, she was incubating a *child*. One that she and Bender had created. It was both crazy and not so crazy. Obviously, Brian would never bet on his friends, but if he were forced to for whatever reason, he’d have picked those two as the Most Likely to Wind Up Parents Accidentally. In fact, he wouldn’t have been that surprised if it had happened sooner. In high school, after they were “out”, so to speak, they were forever getting into trouble with Vernon and Rooney for their…more amorous transgressions. The longer they were together, the bolder they grew. It started with the janitors’ closets, then graduated to empty classrooms, the library, the football field (both during practice and not), the locker rooms, the weight room, the school pool after hours, the staff parking lot, and in Vernon’s office. 

Brian was privy to this unnecessarily unnerving information because Bender had kept a tally of all the places on campus he and Claire marked as territory. And gleefully showed it to him, often. 

So, he wouldn’t have been *too* surprised, was all. Or so he thought. Idly thinking it and having it actually happen were two different things.  
Jackie nodded now. “Jeez. I still can’t believe they’re—“ 

Sylvia Takahari took that opportunity to grace them with her presence. A statuesque, curly-haired redhead, she looked absolutely nothing like her daughter, who’d inherited her looks from Hideo. A former Miss Texas, she’d met Hideo during the Miss America pageant held that year in New York’s Waldorf-Astoria, where he was a guest.

“Hello, Brian!” she trilled, kissing his cheek. “My, don’t you look handsome!”

Brian flushed beneath the starched collar of the oxford. “Thank you, Mrs.—Mrs. Takahari.” 

Jackie’s mother waved a perfectly manicured hand. “Pfft. We’re all friends now. Call me Syl. And please ignore my husband; he’s been actin’ like a real boar lately. A boring ol’ boar. Ha. Let’s get to Lyric Opera before traffic gets crazy.” 

At the stunning Lyric Opera of Chicago, the Takaharis plus Brian climbed to their envious box seats. The Takahari family, as frequent visitors, had permanent balcony seats. Though Brian did not consider himself to be much of an opera aficionado, he knew 'Carmen' was his mother’s favorite and thus had always wanted to see it. He quickly found himself enraptured in the story of Spanish soldier Don José and his obsession with the wild and fiery Carmen. 

With intermission, Jackie left to go to the bathroom (and probably get a refill on her large Coke). Left alone with Sylvia Takahari, Brian twiddled his thumbs. He kept glancing at the woman out the corner of his eye, peering at the stage through her golden opera binoculars, lo there wasn’t anything to see but the curtain. The question was on the tip of his tongue, aching to jump off. His friends would tell him to go for it, he knew. Andy would tell him to go for it. Bender would snort and order him to stop being a pussy.

Brian sighed and swiveled in his velvet seat, deciding not to be a pussy. “Um, Mrs. Takahari? I—I mean, err, Syl.”

It was still so odd to call an adult by their given name. Brian sometimes had to remind himself that he was an adult too, technically. 

The former Miss Texas turned to regard him, continuing to hold the binoculars to her eye. “Yes, darlin’? Oh, hun, I think you gotta pimple growin’ on your nose. Better put some toothpaste on that sucker. Should dry it out overnight.” 

Brian’s hand automatically rose to the end of his nose, where, indeed, he felt a zit growing. 'Great. I’m Rudolph'. “Err, thanks, Mrs.—Syl. I would like to ask you, um, ask you something, as long as I have your ear.”

“Sure, Brian.” Sylvia lowered her opera spyglasses to her lap. “What can I do for you?”

Brian squelched the urge to start tapping his fingers against his legs nervously. “I was wondering if…if there was something I could do to engage your husband—I mean, Mr. Takahari—at all? Because he doesn’t seem to like me, and I’d like to change that. Jackie is important to me, and um, it’s also important that her father doesn’t, like, hate me.”  
Sylvia remained silent for a minute. Brian thought that he had offended her somehow or stuck his foot in his mouth, as he was sometimes wont to do. His sister, Mary, sometimes snickered that his foot must’ve been mighty tasty, for how many times he stuck it in there. 

But Mrs. Takahari only burst out laughing. “Oh, Hideo’s getting to ya, huh? It ain’t just you, sweetheart.” She leaned over and patted him on the leg. “Whenever a boy came callin’ for her in high school, he’d practically chase ‘em off with the Remington we keep locked up in the hall closet.”

In response to that, Brian’s eyes widened a bit. 'Note to self: do not sneak around that property, ever.' 

Jackie’s mother snickered at the look on his face. “Poor boys. But let me tell you somethin’. Only you have managed to last this long. Now, I don’t know if it’s a big help that our daughter’s in college now and not around the house as much, but usually, those kids take one look at my husband’s face and head for the hills. You haven’t, and I’m pretty sure Hideo tried to pay you off once.”

Yep. Right after their third date, in fact. When Brian drove Jackie home and walked her to her door, Mr. Takahari intercepted them and, after his daughter disappeared inside, broke out his checkbook and bluntly asked him how much it would take. 

“I really let him have it for that one,” Sylvia tsked. “Had to sleep on the couch for two days with the cat. Anyway.” Smiling at Brian, she patted his hand with her fingers. “Don’t fret about him. He’ll come around.”

Brian inwardly cringed. He wasn’t so sure about that. “But, ma’am, is there anything I can, I don’t know, talk with him about? Maybe…break the ice a bit more?”

Mrs. Takahari placed a finger to her chin. “Well. How do you feel about baseball?”

Up went a blond eyebrow. He hadn’t been expecting that response. “Baseball?”

Sylvia grinned. “He’s a mighty big Cubs fan. So if you wanna connect with him, I suggest readin’ up on some Cubbie stats. And baseball history, in general. Gets a real kick outta that stuff.”

'Huh'. Brian remained pensive until Jackie returned just in time for the second act.  
***

One week. 

It had been one week since Claire’s world was turned on its axis. Seven days. One-hundred-sixty-eight hours. Five million trips to the bathroom. Or so it felt in Claire’s opinion. She didn’t understand this reaction. She’d read in a magazine that some women barely had any morning sickness at all. Why was she one of the unlucky ones?  
'Well. Considering my recent luck at the moment, it totally makes sense.' 

The universe hated her. 

So hard. She’d been trying so hard. Staying up all hours to work on her thesis—which she, thank God, was finally satisfied with, after multiple edits—and falling asleep with her Breaking Boundaries in Education textbook open on her chest. Claire would wake up in the morning, roll over, and glimpse it perched on the bedside table, closed but with a piece of paper sticking out of it standing in for a bookmark that read 'Must be interesting material' in familiar bold scrawl. 

Claire’s lips quirked thinking about it. 

Naturally, however, this led to thoughts of her boyfriend, which, in turn, led to feelings of low-grade contrition. She knew that she’d been—what? Distant? Preoccupied? Fucking scared out of her mind? All of the above, really, all week. And he’d given her time to think and drift through the week like a spectacularly dressed ghost and hadn’t even been an asshole when she railed at him for leaving the toilet seat up. All he did was roll his eyes and put it down with a little bow, and that annoyed her more at first but she later brought him a beer and apologized for being a spazoid. 

Granted, it wasn’t entirely her fault. Her mood was off the charts now, and it was likely due to the miniature Bender cooking in her oven. 

One week. And Claire had finally come to a decision. 

The time now was 2:05 in the afternoon. Claire had completed her only class of the day— the full two hours; Prof. Goodwin was not as in as good a mood this time—but, rather than head straight home, she found herself driving downtown for a quick pop inside her favorite Ralph Lauren boutique. She was nervous about telling John her decision. Some people ate when they were nervous. Claire shopped. 

Three new blouses, two pairs of jeans, and a new purse later, she emerged from the shop coming down from the manufactured euphoria of spending. 'I definitely needed the retail therapy,' she thought, practically skipping to the sleek, silver Audi her father had given her for high school graduation. After she stuffed the bags in the back and hopped into the driver’s seat, her high was all but gone and she was anxious again. 

Claire sighed and leaned back in the seat. Then, although it was out of the way—as in, the opposite direction “out of the way”—she pulled the Audi out of the space and headed for Carter & Craig Construction’s home base, purely on impulse. 

Or maybe instinct. 

John’s office—or warehouse, really—was in the Near West Side district, just off S. Morgan near Little Italy. She would always associate the delectable scents of oregano and marinara with wooden workbenches and sawdust. What should’ve been a fifteen-minute side trip took more than twice as long due to an accident on W. Cermak. Sitting stuck in the resulting slog, she wished that she had turned on the local traffic. 

Then, she saw the ambulance and instantly felt horrible. 'God, I’m still such a bitch sometimes'. 

Parking in the small lot beyond the squat brick structure, Claire considered whether to go in at all, feeling like an idiot. She didn’t even know if he was there today. John had been working steadily on that house in Lake Forest, though he did occasionally work back downtown on custom pieces. She was aware that he was putting money away for a not-shitty apartment for the both of them, and while she loved him for it, she’d assured him on more than one occasion that it wasn’t necessary. If anyone could match and beat her stubborn streak, however…

Claire chuckled incredulously to herself. She hadn’t called ahead, either. Not that it would’ve mattered; she didn’t have her mobile phone with her. It was heavy and awkward and made her purse look lumpy. 

'Claire Standish, you are ridiculous.' 

Turning off the car, she stepped out. Madonna had been mid-word in her newest hit single. 

Pulling open the glass-front door, Claire stepped into the small, rectangular front room. To the back was an oak door that opened up to a much wider workspace, along with the attached warehouse next door. A few paces before her was the secretary’s desk. And the secretary, Natalie. Claire did not like Natalie. 

When the bell above the door jangled, the brunette filing her nails glanced up, a smile of welcome upon her hair band music video girl’s face. It abruptly vanished when she realized she was not dealing with a potential new customer. “Oh, it’s you.” 

Claire scoffed. When she’d first met the receptionist, she’d been a bit taken aback by her blatant attitude. As the daughter of Richard Standish, Claire was used to being treated with a certain degree of respect, but Natalie continued to not give a single shit even after learning who she was. She almost had to admire the girl. 

But it’d soon become apparent just *why* the secretary was so instantly antagonistic to her, and it had to do with the picture of her in John’s wallet. One that he’d shown Natalie after she tried to hand him her ass shortly after beginning work here. The repeated attempts to change his mind (not that Claire was keeping tabs; she just overheard things, jokes between coworkers…sometimes while listening on the other end of the phone, for instance) had not gone in her favor, and she just grew pissier and pissier because of it. 

Whatever. No skin off Claire’s ass. 

In spite of this, it did not stop the girl from making rude and overtly sexual gestures whenever Claire was around, almost daring her to complain. But she wouldn’t; she’d be the bigger person. 

Crossing her arms over her chest, Claire asked without preamble, “Is John here?”

Tap, tap, tap went a pen as Natalie balanced it between her thumb and forefinger. “Gee, I don’t know,” she hedged, pursing her lips for effect. “Let me call my apartment and see if he’s on the way back yet.”

'Oh, you feckless little twat.'

Dark eyes narrowed. Natalie smirked with her tongue between her teeth.

Before Claire’s rampaging hormones could get the better of her and cause her to do something that she’d fifty-fifty maybe-maybe not regret later—like gouge out one of the brunette’s eyes with her nails, perhaps—John’s friend and coworker, Ty, came through the back door, drying his hands with a white cloth. One of his friends from back in Shermer, Ty was the one who’d helped get John the job here; his dad co-owned the place. 

“Claire!” he cried when he saw her, grinning. 

“Hi, Ty.” Forgoing her bloodlust—for now—she darted forward to meet John’s friend for an embrace, ignoring the annoyed jeer sounding behind her. “How’s Megan?”  
Ty shrugged his broad shoulders once he released her. “She’s good. Down in Florida visiting her folks.”

Megan Hicks was one of Claire’s friends from Shermer—and also Ty’s on-again-off-again-on-again girlfriend. She was also the only one of her so-called “rich-bitch” friends John actually liked. Not only had she been the first to accept their relationship back in the day, she’d been intrigued. So Claire introduced her to Ty and that was all she wrote.  
“I should give her a call,” she said now, pursing her lips in guilt. School had been quite the distraction in her personal relationships. 

'And here I thought nothing else could be more stressful'. 

“I’ll give her a head’s up. You lookin’ for Bender?” 

“Is he here?” she hedged dubiously.

Thankfully, someone up there liked her because Ty nodded. “Yup. You caught him on a home day. Yo, Bender!”  
Claire tried not to wince when Ty craned his neck and yelled toward the open door behind him. Her senses had gone a bit haywire; everything seemed louder to her.  
“What?!” came the slightly distant but distinctly annoyed reply. 

Ty snickered. “Your girl’s here!”

There was a bit of a clatter, a muffled oath as he very likely tripped over something (she knew it was a mess back there), then John appeared through the back door a minute later. He was dressed, as usual, in his “work uniform” of faded jeans and a white t-shirt, the ever-present Docs replaced with tan work boots. His thick dark hair was around his face as always but mussed, like he’d run a hand through it a few times.

He looked good. Really good. Claire felt her libido pulling at her, stoking a fire, and she pushed it down with all her might. 'Down, girl.' Now was definitely not the time to be…distracted. That way. 

Good grief, her hormones were not going to cease until she did something mortifying in public. 

“Princess!” John cried histrionically. “To what do I owe the honor of your reputed presence in this fine but modest establishment?”

Claire blinked her eyes skyward. This was how he always greeted her here, whether he expected her or not. 

The butterflies had taken root in her stomach again. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she asked if he was busy.

Her inner desperation or confusion or whatever hodgepodge of emotional bullshit she was currently entrapped by must’ve been reflected on her face somehow—Claire usually hated that he could so easily read her when she prided herself on her ability to keep her true feelings hidden behind a mask, but not now—because he told Ty he was taking his lunch. 

“Yeah, no shit!” came the instant reply from his friend/co-worker. 

John flipped him off with a smile.

As John escorted her out, Claire side-eyed Natalie’s silent but incredibly vulgar gesture. The girl winked, and Claire flipped *her* off. 

Without a word, John led her next door. It was a silent agreement by now. Whenever Claire stopped by the office, they grabbed hotdogs at Pop’s—Chicago-style, obviously. Claire waited at a wrought iron outdoor table while he went inside to fetch the food. 

And drummed her fingers. And twitched her leg. And wiped the sweat from her palms on the thighs of her jeans. 

She had made her decision, and she was going to stick by it. His reaction, though, had her feeling more nauseated than usual, and she hated it. She believed him when he insisted he’d support any choice she made, she truly did.

But still. The sweaty palms. The twitching leg.

Ugh. Claire felt sick. Er. Sicker. 

He returned a few minutes later, balancing Chicago dogs in cardboard boat trays and two cans of Coke. She took a bite of the hotdog as soon as he set it before her. One minute she was queasy, and the next she was ravenous. 

Pregnancy was whacked. 

“They make them good here,” Claire mumbled, totally not avoiding the elephant in the room. Nope.  
John’s answering nod was slow. “That they do.”

Still skirting the actual reason she was here, Claire plowed on about Allison and Andy’s upcoming nuptials. “Ally called earlier. We’re, um, going to pick out the dresses for the bridesmaids soon. Should be…interesting.”

Up went a corner of his mouth. “Something tells me they’ll be black. Maybe poufy. I see lots of black lace and ribbons and shit. You could all end up looking like some unholy permutation between Madonna, Elvira, and Winona Ryder in 'Beetlejuice'.” 

Claire had to chuckle at that mental image. Allison’s sister, Eleanor—who was, according to Ally, ten times less insufferable than her parents--was her Maid of Honor, just as Andy’s oldest brother, Greg, was his Best Man. She and John were in the wedding party, along with Brian and Jackie. Claire was not preparing herself for Allison to choose anything that could remotely be considered traditional. 

“Like you’re not going to wear your boots.” The idea of dress shoes still baffled and amused him. 

John sneered. “Sporto’s gonna have a helluva time talking me into one of those penguin suits, I’ll tell you that.” 

She smiled, then glanced down at her half-eaten Chicago dog. 

Taking a pull from his Coke, John wiped his mouth on the back of his hand even though there was a paper napkin at his elbow, then stared hard at her. “I take it this social call isn’t just about Sporto and Nutso’s I Dos.” 

Claire swallowed. Her throat was dry, lo she had just taken a sip of soda. “Not hardly. Um…so…I did the thinking thing. And I came to a conclusion. Eventually.”

He nodded, urging her to go on. 

She could feel her pulse fluttering beneath her skin, but it was now or never. Taking a deep breath, Claire plowed on. “John, I can’t. I mean…I can’t just get rid of…it. The baby. I don’t know if it’s my mom’s influence or if…I don’t know. I just can’t. If other people want to do it, get an abortion, that’s their business, I guess. But for *me*…”

'I said "the baby"'. That was the first time she had used that word out loud. 

Yet again, he nodded, his face a careful mask. Claire found herself rushing on ahead, her thoughts spurt forth before she fully realized they’d leapt off her tongue. “So, then I thought about adoption. Carrying this baby for nine months or however long, going through labor and delivery with it, just to hand it off to someone else…I don’t think I can do that, either.”

Claire felt oddly winded. Her boyfriend was quiet for a minute after her dual confessions, or explanations, or whatever they were. Silently, she urged him to say something.  
Anything. His face gave nothing away, when it was usually so expressive. 

John leaned back in his chair. “So…you’re saying you want to keep it?”

She poked at her hotdog, rapidly growing cold. “It’s not a pet, John. I mean…this is gonna change a lot.” 

“I know that.” He sounded almost offended. 

Another deep inhalation. 'Just get it over with, Standish'. “So I understand if you, like, can’t deal with that. This is, technically, because I missed a pill. I’m owning up to that. But, like, I get if you just can’t because it’s a lot and—“ 

“Hey.” Reaching across the small table, he didn’t hesitate to take her hand. Claire’s slumped shoulders rose a bit. “I told you, Queenie, I don’t run away from my mistakes. I’m not going anywhere. All right?”

She nodded, smiling, feeling as if a gigantic boulder had been removed from her shoulders, one that she’d been shepherding all week. “You’re ready for this, then?”

Up went one dark eyebrow. “Are you?”

Claire breathed a half-terrified laugh. “No. I guess no one really is.”

“Look. Claire.” He was studying their fingers, loosely intertwined atop the bistro-style table. With his thumb, he idly drew circles around one of her knuckles. “The fact is, I’m pretty fucking terrified, just as I know you are. And I have no idea what the hell I’m doing—“ 

“I don’t, either,” she broke in, words soft, a bit mesmerized by their combined hands on the tabletop. 

“Right,” he agreed, finally glancing up. Claire tore her attention from the circular motions of his finger to meet his gaze. “Neither of us really know what we’re doing. And I’m equally as terrified of screwing this up.” 

*This* being parenthood. 

“But,” he continued. Claire noted he was uncharacteristically struggling for the right words. '*Are* there right words right now? For this?' “I guess we’ll just—figure it out as we go. Right? What else can we do? What else does *anyone* do?” 

That was a good question. Granted, Claire’s parents had gone a different route by hiring nannies and au pairs to basically raise her and Josh, but that was the last thing she wanted to do. 

And John’s parents…

She didn’t even want to go there.

Suddenly, it all hit her like a ton of bricks. The whole situation was absurd. Sitting here, discussing the very fabric of their lives being upheaved—over hotdogs. Claire’s chortle was incredulous. “Oh my God, we’re going to be parents.” 

John responded with his trademark smirk. “This kid is gonna need so much therapy.” 

Their shared mirth lasted until tears poured out of their eyes. 

Once she calmed, Claire rose, rounded the table, and plunked herself in her boyfriend’s lap, not giving a shit who was watching. Wrapping both arms around his neck, she kissed him until she needed to come up for air to breathe. “Thank you.”

John’s hands lightly gripped her hips. “We’ll be all right, Cherry. Fuck me, I just hope the kid will be.”

She leaned back into his chest. 'I fucking hope so.'  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, here is part five.
> 
> Note 1: Also another one that took me a minute to finalize. I, personally, have never had this talk with a dude before so I asked my friends and did some research on the 'net. It's a tug-o-war, discussing abortion in any capacity. As a writer, you don't want to offend anyone, and also leave your own opinions on the matter at the door. For the first time, I understood why actors go Method (as Judd did playing Bender; almost got his ass fired because he wouldn't stop and John Hughes had never worked with a Method actor before. Which amuses me)
> 
> Note 2: I based the look of Jackie's parents on Phoebe Heyerdahl's from "Hey Arnold". I know, I was watching Splat at some insane hour and writing this chapter. Helga/Arnold 4eva and stuff.
> 
> Note 3: I have started assembling random pictures to go with this fic that I'm gonna put on my profile. Like 80s-era actors for the OCs. Allison's ring. The weird art deco settee. Which is based on an actual settee I saw in Neiman-Marcus that was so uncomfortable looking, I had to include it.
> 
> -Bee  
Read and review to make Spangly Bob happy!


	7. Chapter 6: Cheers

Chapter 6: Cheers

The Bull Pub was a hole-in-the-wall bar off Logan Square about halfway between the Loop, where Bender’s fancy-pants apartment was, and Jefferson Park, where Sporto lived. Big Bri’s place near the Northwestern campus in Evanston was about a twenty-five minute drive. One day, a few years ago—before Dorktron met Lady Dorktron—the girls dragged the boys around while they shopped, insisting that it had to be in Logan Square for reasons Bender couldn’t recall (probably something stupid like a sale or some shit) and not Michigan Avenue, closer to Housely, where Bender had grown used to following Claire around like an idiot while she spent her old man’s money. Sometimes, he even offered to carry a bag or two. He was turning into such a schmuck. But at least he wasn’t becoming a suited yuppie asshole with his ear constantly to his phone like the Sport. 

On the plus side, he was usually able to grab an ice cream in the Ghirardelli shop nearby. That place made good fucking ice cream. 

In any event, the girls were dragging them around, Allison looking for more records and Claire being, well, Claire, popping into every store to try on shit. Bender had a mental block. He could only tolerate an hour of that crap—maybe ninety minutes, if he was in a particularly good mood. So he, Andy, and Brian begged off to the nearest watering hole. Claire and Allison barely noticed. 

That watering hole was The Bull Pub. It was just a sports bar, named after the Chicago Bulls—though not officially, ‘cus the guy who owned it didn’t want to get sued and all—with a few TVs suspended from the walls playing different games. Usually Chitown teams—the Cubs, the White Sox, the Bears, the Bulls, the Blackhawks, even the Chicago Fire, although Bender had no idea who’d give a shit about soccer in this country. Made sense, in a way, as the owner was a Brit expat. John figured that was why the place was a pub and not a bar. 

Ever since then, the boys met every few weeks at The Bull. When they wanted to get drunk and listen to tunes, they met at The Bull. When they needed to escape the burgeoning responsibilities of adulthood and/or their girlfriends, they met at The Bull. When one of them just needed to talk, they met at The Bull. 

And John absolutely needed to talk. Because crap-on-a-cracker and Jesus Christ, his entire world was about to change. 

The fact that he’d been the one to call this meeting or guys’ night out or whatever the fuck was telling enough. Bender was usually content to let Sporto or Brainiac take the lead there. He wasn’t much for that talking about our feelings crap. That was a chick thing, in his opinion. 

Yet, here he was, about to do just that.

When John walked into the bar—pub, whatever—it was crowded, and he had to maneuver through the throng of drunken Cubs fans waving around bottles of beer and shouting at one of the TVs like hyenas as they played against…oh, who the fuck cared. John wasn’t much for baseball. He thought it was boring. 

Hockey, though…he kinda dug hockey. Watching those dudes beat the shit out of each other while trying to balance on ice skates was hilarious. 

Andy and Brian were already there, seated at the bar nursing drinks. Both guys were watching the screen from their stools. Big Bri looked both rapt and confused. 

“Hey, assholes,” Bender called over the raucous cheering.

Both Sporto and Brainiac instantly perked up, then scowled in unison. He laughed.

It felt good to laugh. And forget for just a tiny second that he was petrified. 

Andy continued to glare at him over his beer stein whilst he pulled out one torn nylon stool and sat down. “You’re such a prick.”

Bender flicked his hair out of his face. “Are you new? What’s up, Big Bri?” Leaning over the bar—and Sporto—he gave the Dork a high five. He was sober enough not to tumble backwards this time. 

“Hey, Bender. Just, you know, nothing much. Trying to watch this game.” Brian was staring at the TV like he was striving to complete a jigsaw puzzle. 

John crossed his arms over his chest. The leather gloves were back on tonight. “Since when do you give a fuck about baseball? Or is this some dorky math thing about trajectories and ball-to-bat ratios or some shit?” 

If anything, Brian looked like an embarrassed turtle, ducking his head into his collarbone. The Brainiac *should’ve* been embarrassed, wearing that ancient green sweatshirt and clashing green chinos. 'Give the kid a shell and some swords and he’d be a Ninja Turtle. Dorkatello'. 

Bender smirked at his own wit. 'I’m fucking awesome'. 

The smirk came crashing down when he recollected, oh yeah, that he was petrified. 

Swiveling in his seat, John raised a hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Yo! ‘Tender! A Heineken and make it snappy.” 

The bartender slid the green bottle down the bar without a backwards glance. No one ever asked for ID here. There were definitely some underage kids in attendance this fine evening. Not that it was anything off his ass. 

Bender took a long pull off the bottle. He was going to need a lot of alcohol for this conversation. 

Well, maybe not a lot. He had to drive home, after all. And Claire would kill him.

He snorted with the bottle raised halfway to his lips. 'I’m so pussy-whipped'. 

Pussy-whipped, and about to become a dad. 

Bender took another long pull. 

No one said another word until one of the players—John didn’t know who; they all looked like penises in little hats at this vantage—hit a homerun, and the rioters gathered in front of the TV went ape. Raising beer steins, slur-singing that Steve Goodman song, and bumping each other’s chests like frat boy dingdongs.  
Beside him, Andy rested his glass on the bar and began clapping raucously. Brian was also applauding but in a more subdued way. 

“Woo! Let’s go, Cubbies!” Jocko shouted through his hands as if they were a blow horn.

A few of the frat boys pointed at Sporto like he was their “bro” and cheered. Bender’s eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head. 

“You know they can’t hear you, right? They’re in the TV,” Bender said, his voice dripping with condescension. 

“It’s an important game, dick. They’re winning. Besides, you shout like a maniac whenever Iron Maiden takes the stage.”

John took a drink from the Heinie with one hand while waving Andy’s argument away with the other, as though a tangible thing. “Only at concerts, genius. And that at least makes sense. You Sports are crazy.” Another pull. “No wonder you ended up with the Basketcase.”

Sporto sipped from his own beer. “We here for a reason or just to bear witness to you being your asshole self, Bender? Because Bri and I have five years’ experience of that already.” 

“Nah, getting to bask in my amazing presence is just a bonus.”

John was stalling. He knew he was stalling. But annoying the hell out of the Sport was just too damn fun to resist. 

Andy scoffed. “Right. So?”

And that was it, the prompt. Dropping the “everything is business as usual” act, John felt the mask of normalcy slip from his face. He knew he needed to get…stuff off his chest. He just didn’t entirely know how to go about starting to. 

Not meeting either of his friends’ eyes, Bender stared unseeingly at the bottle of Heineken perched on the bar before him. “I talked to Claire,” he admitted after a brief hesitation. 

He could feel Sporto and Dorktron’s twin gazes boring into him. “Y—you mean, um, you had *that* conversation?” Brian asked. 

Bender nodded, and then ordered a shot of whiskey. 

Both boys leaned further toward him, trying to hear better over the shouting. John was grateful for and annoyed with the background noise at the same time.  
“What’d she say?” Andy this time, his elbow resting on the bar top. 

“She’s keeping it. She wants to keep it.” 

'No, not "it". Him. Or her.' 

There was a human growing inside Claire’s stomach right now, and he had put it there. 

Hole. Lee. Fuck. 

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the raucous cheering and jeering. 

It was Andy who broke it. “Wow. Uh…wow.” 

Bender glared askance beside him. “Intelligent, Sporto.” 

“Sorry,” he shrugged. He rarely heard "sorry" come out of Andy’s mouth in reference or response to him. “Just surprised is all. I mean, you’re young, and Claire’s about to graduate. I just thought…I don’t know what I thought.” He looked away for a momentary spell, perhaps uncomfortably. 

“What are you gonna do?” Brian’s expression was commiserating. 

Bender sneered, lowering his Heineken. “Why does everyone keep *asking* me that? 'What am I gonna do?' First, Claire tries to give me an out and then—“ 

Brian and Andy looked at each other. “She tried to give you an out?” Andy’s eyes were a bit wider than usual.

Shrugging, playing off like the very idea didn’t make him sick, he knocked back the shot, then ordered another. “Yeah. Said she’d ‘understand’ if I can’t handle it or something. I told her I don’t run away from my mistakes. Besides, I can’t…” 

Just the mere thought of walking away from Claire now, after all this time…it legitimately physically hurt. Left a hollow in his chest—a big, gaping void only her voice or her smile could fill. Otherwise, he was lost, left floundering, with only a Claire-shaped chasm inside him to show for it. Over the last few years, she had become as indelibly entwined within him as the blood that ran through his veins, as necessary as the air he breathed. He couldn’t imagine not having her around, every day, nagging at him and laughing with him and kissing him until the stars exploded. 

John swigged again from the Heinie bottle. 

Both of his friends appeared empathetic. The girls drove them all crazy, in different ways, and neither of them could picture life without them in theirs.  
There was another pregnant pause between the three. See, this was why Bender had never been the first to call these things—until now. He wasn’t *good* at this shit. He’d probably *never* be good at this shit. He wasn’t the guy who got in touch with his 'emotions' or whatever the fuck. 

You know, the emotions that were currently eating him alive. 

Andy was the first to clear his throat. “So…what’s going through your mind, man? You’ve gotta be…I mean, it is a lot, Claire’s right about that.”

John shrugged again. What was going through his mind? What *wasn’t* going through his mind? It was a chaotic mess up there. Like the cable in his head had gone haywire. Every time he tried to focus on one specific idea, thick snow clouded over, and he was back where he started. 

Yet, one repeating thought kept coming in loud and clear.

And it was in his old man’s voice.

'Guess my line’s ending here, huh? Fucking worthless piece of shit. Lazy, good-for-nothin’ little asshole. If you didn’t look just like me, I’d assume your ma had been fucking someone else when she got pregnant with you'. 

John conceded that. He *did* look like his dad—or, rather, how his dad used to look. Sure, the Jake Bender of now was a middle-aged fart who’d gone soft in the middle after downing a waterfall of alcohol, but he’d seen pictures of his old man back in the day. Most notably from his parents’ wedding photo, taken outside some old church in Northbrook (in it, his dad was even smiling; John figured his maternal grandfather, whom he rarely saw, was holding a hunting rifle on him just out of view). The dude had been a bit skinnier and wore his hair a bit shorter, but otherwise he was Bender’s mirror image. 

That was not a welcoming notion. In the past, John had stared at his reflection in the mirror with the urge to punch himself in the nose so that maybe the broken bone would heal weird and he wouldn’t resemble that asshole anymore. 

Pure vanity always stopped him. 

'Who the hell would ever love you, you fucking stain? You’re an embarrassment.' 

An embarrassment. John could feel the Back There Face slipping over his features. Claire wasn’t here to rub his neck like he liked this time. 

“Honestly?” Another swig, and then he signaled for one more. “I’m fucking terrified.”

Brian leaned further over the bar. “Well, John. Anyone would be. Right? That’s totally normal.”

“Yeah,” Andy agreed. “You guys are just starting out, really. We all are. I know you’re putting money away. And to find out you got your girlfriend pregnant…”  
Bender glared askance at the Sport. “Not helping.” Sighing, he reached for the new bottle of Heineken and practically tore the cap open, ignoring the stinging in his palm. “It’s not just that. I don’t want…” 

'You know-it-all piece of crap! I’ll knock your fucking teeth out!' 

John closed his eyes, wishing away The Voice, and knocked back a long gulp of the beer. 

“You don’t want to be like your dad, right?”

Bender craned his neck to stare a bit agog at Brian. He supposed it made a kind of sense that the Brainiac had been the one to figure that out. Not only was he Einstein, he was good at reading people, seeing past their bullshit. If neurology didn’t pan out, he could always become a psychiatrist. Like Hashpipe. 

Once again, John shrugged, knowing full well both his friends could see right through him. *Of course* he didn’t want to turn into that piece of human excrement. The very idea horrified him. But, now, it was mainly the supposition, the question, that…what if Jake Bender had been a decent guy when he met his ma? And then turned into that shitlord he knew and loathed? Because of him. 

John would never be able to live with himself. In a flash, he saw himself ten, fifteen years down the line, slumped in a Laze-E-Boy with a beer in one hand, the remote in the other, sneering obscenities at his kid. For spilling paint in the garage. For breaking a glass. For leaving a jacket on the floor. 

For existing. 

And then, in that same waking nightmare, he saw his Princess reduced to a pauper, hollow-eyed and wearing too much makeup with which to cover the bruises he left on her delicate skin. 

Bender’s hand shook. He gripped the bottle of Heineken so hard, he could feel it crack. The alcohol was pushed aside. John didn’t want any more. 

Without his consent, words poured from his throat in response. “The notion of becoming that man is my worst fucking nightmare. My worst. Fucking. Nightmare.”

'Don’t kid yourself, Johnny-boy. You’re on track to be a real chip off the old block.' The Voice again, taunting him in a memory of his old man catching him with a stolen six pack of Bud.

“Why would you think you’re just, like, destined to turn into him?” Big Bri again. He could see his curly mop in his peripheral vision. 

John’s hand itched for the beer—he needed more inhibition to deal with this conversation—but he steadfastly resisted. “How can I not? Shit, I don’t even know if my dad had ever, at any point, been anything other than a waste of oxygen. Or if it was me that made him that way. There had to be something my ma saw in him back in the day, right?” 

Brian cringed a bit. “I, uh, don’t know. Your mom was really young when you were born, right?”

'So is Claire.'

It was right on the tip of his tongue to point out, but Big Bri pushed on ahead. “And didn’t they get married after, like, two months or something?”

That was true. Jake and Laura had barely known each other when his ma wound up knocked up. 

“That’s not like you and Claire,” the Dork continued. Bender could feel his watery blue eyes on him. “I mean, you guys have been—have been together forever.”

Five years to someone barely out of their teens was pretty much forever, Bender had to admit. 

“And as for, you know, the other thing,” Brian went on, his tone measured but pensive. “I, uh, don’t think you need to worry, Bender. I always thought, in spite of everything—the whole rebel thing you got going on—“ 

John was indignant. “It’s not a *thing*, Dorko!” 

Though, he was certainly feeling less and less rebellious lately. A steady girlfriend will do that to you. He had to do something to make up for it. Pants a cop, maybe. Or pay a visit to his alma mater and hide a stink bomb in Vernon’s office.

Hell, Vernon *and* Rooney. They were both jackasses. 

Carl was cool, though. He hoped the dude was still there.

Beside him, Sporto snickered. Brian hurried on before Bender could knock him upside the head. “Right. It’s just, you know, people may assume…and, um, in m—my opinion, they’d be wrong. Isn’t that how we all met in the first place?”

Bender blinked his eyes skyward. “We met in detention.” Dorktron would know that. He was the one who insisted on that lame anniversary thing every year.

“I mean, yeah, but we connected because of how people perceive us. And—and we all understood that that was bullshit.” 

Dweebie wasn’t the smart one for nothing. 

“So,” he added, carefully sipping his beer and making a face after swallowing. John couldn’t help smirking. “I always thought, like, underneath the image and the cursing and driving Vernon insane, you had a pretty, um, high moral character. I don’t see you becoming your father.” 

Bender stewed in his thoughts. It was an interesting assessment of his psyche, at least. No one had ever accused John Bender of having a 'high moral character'. But, he supposed he did have them—morals, that was. That was why he’d gone off on Queenie in detention years ago, during their bizarre share circle on the platform. She’d known treating people like shit because they weren’t popular was wrong but admitted to doing it anyway because that was what her friends expected of her. 

John winced remembering that day. He’d been so *angry*. She was acting like such a high and mighty fucking bitch, and, as he sat there yelling at her, he wondered how far down her ivory pedestal she looked at *him*. 

He’d been right, he knew he’d been right, but that was the first time he’d made her cry and, though he hadn’t let it bother him then, he kicked himself for it now. 

Directly beside him, Sporto shook his preppy, blond head. “Look, Bender. I wanna preface this by saying that I am about to compliment you—more than I ever have in one sitting. Hell, probably more than I ever have combined.”

A corner of John’s lips ticked up at that. 

“First of all, you’re an asshole—“ 

“That a compliment where you’re from, jockstrap?” Bender’s expression was flat. 

Andy sneered. “As I was saying, you’re an asshole. You know it. We know it. Shit, Claire knows it. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she’s crazy about your ass. Or maybe just crazy, either one works.”

John flipped him off. “You’re one to talk, Mr. Basketcase.” He paused. “I admit, however, that my ass is quite exceptional.” 

Brian snorted in laughter. Sporto rolled his eyes. “Anyway, she obviously sees something in you. And she wants to do this with you. Doesn’t seem like she’s at all worried about you turning into your old man.” 

“Claire doesn’t *know* my old man.” He’d kept her as far away from his old house in Shermer as possible, except on the few occasions he knew both his parents would be gone. John did not want Claire in the vicinity of that shithead. 

The Sport bobbed his shoulders. “Still. She knows plenty from what you’ve told us—and her, probably, in private.” 

Oh, she knew. Obviously, she knew. Sometimes, he’d wake up drenched in a cold sweat, visions of his father dragging him out of bed at all hours to lay down his brand of “justice” swimming before his eyes. For no reason other than he felt like it, or had had a bad day at work. 

“Man,” Andy continued to Bender’s hesitant face. The Sport even patted his shoulder through the faded denim of his jacket, an extremely rare display of comfort between the two of them. Manly comfort. Very much so. “We know you. And she knows you better. You’re not your dad. You’re a…pretty decent dude underneath it all, as Bri said. Don’t freak about that shit. Just be there for Claire. I’m figuring being pregnant and finishing up school’s not the easiest thing.”

John nodded, feeling a bit more at ease. Kind of touched, too, though he sure as shit wasn’t going to admit it to these freaks. 

“But,” the Sport added, nonchalantly sipping from his stein. “You’re still an asshole.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Brian and Andy snickered. John attempted to keep a straight face, then let his muscles relax into a grin.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortish chapter today because I had my pupils dilated and my eyes hurt too much to edit xD I'll put up another tomorrow.
> 
> Note 1: Something tells me turning into his dad would be John's worst fate. Forget nightmare, it'd be a tragedy. 
> 
> Note 2: Methinks in the future, the boys would totally have a bar they escape to to get away from their significant others.
> 
> Note 3: I am working on adding fic-related photos asap
> 
> Note 4: The Bull Pub doesn't exist, from what I know, but Logan Square totally is a neighborhood in Chicago with lots of shops and bars and stuff.


	8. Chapter 7: Moonstruck

Chapter 7: Moonstruck

Dr. Nathan Devers had been with the Standish family for as long as Claire could remember.

Not only had the obstetrician delivered her and Josh, but his father cared for her grandmother when she was pregnant with her mom, and eventually delivered Nora himself. Claire had grown up chatting to the man around the expansive dinner table in the Standish abode, happily showing him everything from her early childish pieces of art to her later school assignments. The doctor and his wife were mainstays at the country club the Standishes belonged to. From the time Claire was small, Dr. Devers joked about delivering her own children one day. 

Well, the joke was on her, because that day was going to come sooner than she would’ve guessed. 

It was odd, Claire mused as she stood on the queue to receive her paperwork. She’d known Dr. Devers all her life, but today marked the first occasion she’d ever been inside his office.

'I’ve never had a reason to be here until now, I guess.'

Dr. Devers had one of those private practices that only those with the best healthcare could afford. Located on the Magnificent Mile, one of the more upscale neighborhoods in Chicago, the doctor’s practice catered to the crème de la crème of Chicago society—the Bluhms, the Zells, the Warners. David Mamet and his wife had passed through here earlier in the decade. Oprah, too, had a cousin who was a frequent patient of the doctor’s. 

The place was so posh, it was situated on one of the top floors in the building, right above the offices of a well-known Chicagoan publication and below one of the most exclusive spas in the city. People went to ridiculous lengths to secure an appointment here. 

Claire had just called Dr. Devers’ private number. He’d penciled her in for three days hence. 

'And I didn’t even need to mention my father.'

Not that she’d talked to him yet. About…this. Or, God help her, her mother. While she’d considered it, Claire wanted to get the first appointment with the doctor under her belt. Have her pregnancy confirmed in the voice of a professional. 

Mostly because the idea was still so abstract and absurd to her. She half-expected to wake up any second. Often, these days, since taking those six tests, she felt outside her body, like she was watching someone else’s life be turned upside down. 

Claire reached the front window and gave her name. The receptionist, dressed in an elegant houndstooth suit, smiled and tapped some information into her computer.

No scrubs for the reception staff here. 

The receptionist handed her a clipboard, a sheaf of papers, and a pen. Claire handed over her ID and insurance cards—her family only paid for the best, a coverage that was usable in the entire country—then took a seat on one of the plush suede sofas in the waiting area. Seated in a lounge across from her, she instantly recognized Cindy Crawford, whom Claire knew was from DeKalb. 

She blinked. 'I *would* come face to face with a supermodel in an OBGYN’s office.'

Claire wished her friends were here. She was uncomfortable, even though this was an old family friend’s place of work and that should have put her more at ease. She felt a bit like an imposter, an outsider, though she didn’t entirely know why, among these other women flashing their rings and staring askance at her for arriving alone. Like she was breaching some unwritten code. 

Raising her chin, Claire attempted to ignore the judgmental stares of the other women in the waiting room—sans Cindy, who simply leafed through a copy of 'Vogue' with her face on it. The clock above her head read 4:15. John would be there soon, and then all these women would eat crow. 

Or not. Her boyfriend wasn’t exactly the besuited yuppie type these ladies had arrived with and deemed suitable. 

A corner of Claire’s mouth ticked as she filled out the paperwork. She kind of hoped he arrived in a leather jacket and Docs, perhaps trailing motor oil. 'Give these ladies-who-lunch a jolt.' 

One thing was for certain—being with John all these years had made her realize how ridiculous high society was. 

Five minutes later, Cindy Crawford was marching toward the back and John appeared in the threshold of the office. He looked a bit mystified, hesitating in the doorway, as if unsure he truly belonged here or if this was the right place. Claire smiled nervously and raised an arm, and he noticeably relaxed. Somewhat. 

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as he approached her, craning his head in all directions. “What the hell is this place? I was expecting a hospital or something.” 

Claire winced and turned the page to fill in her medical history. “That’s not now my family does things.” 

From its location on the Magnificent Mile inside a fifteen story building to the complimentary sparkling water offered to every patient upon checking in to the suede and leather seating arrangements, thick, luxe white carpeting, and artwork by local Chicagoan artists—many out of the School at the Art Institute of Chicago like Allison—dotting the hand-painted floral wallpaper, everything about Dr. Devers’ office screamed privilege and exclusivity and unless you live in a certain tax bracket, don’t bother. Most obstetrician’s offices, or doctors’ workplaces in general, had that sterile, biting antiseptic stench no matter what sort of practitioner or specialist was being seen. Here, the air was permeated with the enticing aroma of freshly baked cookies, which was making Claire both hungry and nauseated at once. 

Dr. Devers had once told her years ago that the office changed the scents weekly in order to hide the underlying odor of…a doctor’s office, she figured. 

'Can’t have the upper crust smelling alcohol and disinfectant like the commoners, now, can we?' 

Her inner monologue was starting to sound like John. 

“Of course not,” John said now, lowering himself to sit beside her. “I should’ve figured. Damn, look at all of this shit.” 

An older blonde woman directly across from him quite literally clutched at her pearls at John’s usage of "shit". He looked her dead in the eyes and sneered. The lady gasped and stood up to move seats.

John chuckled beneath his breath. “Richies.” 

Claire was barely paying the exchange any mind, though she thought he had just offended one of her mother’s friends. She couldn’t believe how much damn paperwork was necessary just to see the obstetrician. And he was a family friend, for Pete sakes! 

“The date of my last period. When was the date of my last period?” she murmured aloud, tapping the end of the pen against her cheek. 

John raised an eyebrow. “Information I am sadly not privy to, Princess. You’re gonna have to consult your spirit guide.”

Claire’s visage was flat. “I wasn’t asking you, John.”

“Thank God.” 

She jotted down 'Sometime in February', as she couldn’t remember the exact date. Checked NO to smoking and drug use—except for the occasional post-sex dope she sometimes shared with John; the doctor didn’t need to know about that—wrote down SOCIALLY next to 'Do you drink?' (though she hadn’t touched any in weeks), and honestly answered 1 OR 2 CUPS DAILY to 'Caffeine intake'. 

After disclosing her surgical history—which encompassed tonsil removal at eight and oral surgery at ten—they, the doctor, whoever, wanted to know what her symptoms were. Were her breasts tender? Yes. Was she using the bathroom often? Eh, not that often. Was she having any odd cravings? Well, she’d woken up in the middle of the night last night with a near desperate need for a corndog. Mood swings? Oh, hell yes. Vomiting? When *wasn’t* she vomiting? That was a better question. 

Claire snorted down at the piece of paper. Beside her, John looked at her like she was going out of her mind. 

Finally finished, she rose and returned the clipboard to the front desk. The receptionist gave her back her insurance and identification cards. The woman in the houndstooth suit beamed at her. “Miss Standish, we’re happy to have you here!”

Her returning smile was shaky. 'Maybe I should’ve given a fake name…' 

She hoped fervently that doctor-patient confidentiality thing extended to family friends. Claire wholly and completely did *not* want her parents hearing that she was pregnant via secondhand gossip. 

John was perusing a copy of 'People' when she returned to the sofa—earnestly flipping through it, to be more precise, wearing a frustrated mien. “Man, am I sick of reading about Tom Cruise. Yeah, I get it. He’s a dreamboat.” Carelessly throwing aside the periodical, he studied the magazine rack against the wall. “Why the hell doesn’t this place have 'Car and Driver' or 'Auto Mechanic' or…anything for the d--?” 

Anything for the dads. He had abruptly closed his mouth before his jaw could actually form the word. Now, his lips flattened, and he anxiously jiggled his leg up and down where it rested on the floor. 

John never did that. Sighing, Claire sat beside the pile of nerves that was her boyfriend at the moment and gently rested her hand on his knee. The twitching eased. 

He opened his mouth again, presumably to say something, but Claire would never know what it was. From the back, the nurse appeared as the erstwhile patient, Cindy Crawford, sashayed toward the exit. 

John’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Was that—?” 

Claire nodded once, amused. “Yep.” 

“*Shit*.”

The nurse, dressed in white scrubs from head to toe, called Claire’s name. Nervous, she rose to stand on shaky legs, clutching her black matte Louis Vuitton purse to keep her hands from shaking. Next to her, John also stood to attention and wordlessly followed her whilst she trailed the nurse to Dr. Devers’ examination room. 

“The doctor will be right in.”

Claire changed into a pretty pink gown the nurse left and hopped up on the examination table, sitting as far from the shiny silver ankle clamps on the ends as she could. The room was decorated like someone’s home, with mahogany cabinetry, artwork on the walls, a rose-colored lounge in a corner. Even the examination table beneath her was less an actual “table” and more a chaise lounge with attached clamps. 

Only the best for a Standish. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head. The words were practically her life’s philosophy. 

At the back of the exam room, John was eyeing the plastic model of a woman’s anatomy during pregnancy. “Is this the--? Oh, shit.” 

She watched whilst he reached for the plastic umbilical cord then inevitably sent a handful of plastic pieces clattering to the floor, including the fetus. When he set them back together, the baby was in breach position and the bladder was upside down.

Claire had to snort a laugh at this last. “Is that some sort of rare illness?” 

John grinned, some of the tension noticeably easing from his shoulders. “Yes. It’s called Bladderus Inversus, and it’s where you pee backwards.”

She erupted in giggles. If there was one thing Claire could always count on, it was that John would never fail to make her laugh, no matter the situation.

The exam room’s white oak door opened and shut with a click, and Dr. Devers strode inside. Though Claire hadn’t seen the man since last summer at the country club, he looked the same as he usually did—tall and reed thin, with a shiny bald pate encircled with sparse gray hairs and a mustache to match. The only difference from the norm was the presence of a white lab coat and stethoscope in lieu of his usual out-of-office preppy attire. 

The thick mustache rose with the doctor’s smile. “Ah, Claire. I already know that you’re going to be my favorite patient of the day.”

“Hi, Dr. Devers,” she giggled some more, squeezing his proffered dry palm. 

“You know you can call me Nathan, my dear, though don’t let that get around. It’s not considered professional.” The obstetrician gazed down at the clipboard in his hands, thumbing through the contents. “Okay. So, your last cycle was sometime in February?”

“I think so.”

“And it says here you’ve been having breast tenderness. No strange cravings or bladder control difficulties, but you have been having mood swings—“ 

Somewhere behind her, John snorted. She turned to stare balefully at him. 

“—and you’ve been vomiting?” 

Once again, John interrupted before she could answer. “When *hasn’t* she been puking? I’m about to attach a wearable trough to her ears.” 

Dr. Devers appeared amused. Claire was not. “Doctor, my boyfriend, John.” 

John darted a few steps forward to shake the OBGYN’s outstretched hand. “Good to meet you, John. I believe we may have been introduced once before, at Eastlake.”

Eastlake was the exclusive country club the Standishes—and pretty much every other notable family in suburban Chicago—had belonged to for the last twenty years. Claire was painfully aware of the, uh, occasion Dr. Devers was referring to. John had only accepted her plus-one invitation to the club once, not that she could blame him. The place wasn’t really his thing, and, truly, hanging around a bunch of stuck up middle-aged parents wasn’t exactly hers, either. Sometimes, she had to put in an appearance, for her mother’s sake. The one time he accompanied her was about a year and a half ago—though why he’d chosen that occasion she still had no idea—for dinner, dancing, and overall dullness with some of Chicago’s Masters of the Universe. Generally, nights at the club were about as interesting as watching paint dry, but not with John there. 

Her boyfriend spent the whole evening conjuring ridiculous rumor after ridiculous rumor—scandalous ones that, obviously, everyone believed without a blink. The very married Mr. Kellogg was having a torrid affair with the equally married Mrs. Butterfield. Old Mrs. Anderson had a meth lab in her basement. Mr. and Mrs. Bueller frequented a swing club on weekends, and not the music kind. Steff McKee’s mother had a secret love child with Blane McDonough’s father. 

It was all actually rather hilarious, and certainly spiced up an otherwise monotonous evening. Her mom, on the other hand, had not been very amused and railed at her for inviting “that cretin” to Eastlake. 

John grinned now. Claire knew he was also recollecting that night. 

“Nice work, by the way,” the doctor continued, chuckling. “I had no idea 80-year-old Mrs. Anderson keeps a meth lab.” 

“Don’t be fooled just because she looks like a nice old lady. She knows how to break bad.” 

Claire shook her head and pursed her lips together to keep from laughing. 

Dr. Devers glanced back down at the clipboard. “All right, Claire, you took one of those at-home tests?”

A grimace crossed her face. “I took six.” 

“And the results?”

“All positive.”

The OBGYN reached into one of those beautiful mahogany cabinets and pulled out a little plastic container with a yellow top. On it, there was a label on which he scrawled her name with a Sharpie. “Well, Claire, I’m going to have you take a urine sample. We’ll send that down to the lab. And when you come back, I’m going to need a blood sample, as well.”

Claire hated giving urine samples. She never knew how much was too much or not enough. And handing the cup of pee off to the doctor never failed to be awkward. 

Then, following a short pelvic exam, which was also uncomfortable, the doctor pricked her for the blood sample; she reflexively hissed as the needle punctured her flesh. While Claire had a remarkably high tolerance for pain, her skin felt more sensitive than usual. 

“Ouch,” she gasped beneath her breath, having not expected the extra sensitivity. John’s hand grasped her own without hesitation. 

“What’s this for?” he asked, staring at the red stuff gradually filling a vial. Claire’s red stuff. 

The doctor gently removed the needle and placed a Band-Aid over the wound. “We’ll send the bloodwork down to the lab to discern if there is anything wrong with the fetus or the mother. We also use it to check blood type, glucose, and cell counts. Later down the road, we’ll need to take another sample to check for gestational diabetes and infections.” The OBGYN chucked the used needle inside a red biohazard box. “We should be able to call you with the results within five to seven days. The urine sample results should take a bit shorter, although considering you, Claire, have already had six positive home results and are exhibiting quite a few symptoms, it’s likely just a formality at this point.” 

Claire traded a glance with John, who still clutched her hand even though the blood sample had been taken. “Do we really need to wait that long?” 

The doctor smiled and stepped toward the sonogram machine resting on a metal cart a few paces from his desk. Wheeling it to the examination table/chaise lounge, he flicked it on and began opening a bottle labeled Transmission Gel. “I want to introduce you both to Ulli. Ulli the Ultrasound Machine. Ulli is a brand new model, and with him, we’ll be able to see quite a bit.”

“Like what?” she asked as Dr. Devers began squeezing a teaspoon of sticky blueish goop over her still flat stomach. The sensation was somehow both warm and cold at the same time, it was odd. 

Dr. Devers lowered the transducer probe to Claire’s abdomen. “First off, I’ll be able to confirm the pregnancy. I can also tell, generally, how far along you are. And watch for any birth defects. I’ll be using Ulli here to monitor your progression throughout your pregnancy, Claire.” 

She tried to keep the smile on her face. Talking like this, it all sounded so…real. 

John gestured toward the probe and the thin layer of goop being spread over Claire’s stomach. “What’s that for?”

The doctor continued to move the probe. “It creates a clearer image of the baby.”

His expression was grossed out and intrigued at the same time. Glancing down at her, he wondered, “How does that feel?”

Claire cringed. “Grody.” 

“Thought so.”

Following another two minutes of attempting to pin the probe to the right spot, Dr. Devers’ face noticeably brightened. “Ah, here we go. And we have a baby, folks!” 

Then, he spun Ulli the Ultrasound Machine around.

Claire didn’t entirely know what she was expecting. She’d studied images of developing fetuses before, obviously, most notably in health classes at Shermer and in the one bio course she had been required to take at U of C. She thought perhaps she’d see an embryo, which kind of resembled a lump of clay or a Brillo pad. Maybe with an appendage here or there developing. 

Instead, what was on the screen was…well, it looked like a baby. Or something she could easily envision turning *into* a baby. A tiny human. That was inside her, right now. 

Gasping, Claire noted two legs, two arms, a head. She thought she could just make out the beginnings of a little nose pointing upwards. This was *her* baby. *Their* baby… 

Tears sprung to her eyes, and the doctor wordlessly handed her a tissue. 

“Holy fuck.”

Just over her shoulder, John was gawking at the screen as though it held all the answers to the universe. His eyes were as wide as saucers. The hand that wasn’t holding hers rose, seemingly of its own volition, to touch the screen. 

He looked mesmerized. Claire grinned through her blubbering. 

“Holy fuck,” he murmured again, craning his head. Dark hair brushed one flannel-clad shoulder. “That’s the kid? I mean, the baby? I mean…” Gazing down at her, he added, naïve incredulity in his voice, “That’s in you. Right now.”

Her grin widened affectionately. Sometimes, he could be so cute. “Yes, John. That’s generally how it works.”

John still looked as if someone had smacked him in the face. And amazed. And also a bit petrified. 

Dr. Devers smiled knowingly. Claire figured he must’ve seen this very reaction from his patients many a time. “Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”

They both bobbed their heads in unison. The obstetrician tapped a couple of commands into the keyboard, and the examination room was suddenly flooded with a sort of mechanical thumping sound. If anything, John’s eyes widened even further. Tears trailed down Claire’s cheeks, cutting through her foundation. 

“Is that…?” he queried, gaze jumping from corner to corner. 

Dr. Devers nodded, grinning below his mustache. “The fetal heartbeat.”

Claire wept harder. Jesus, she was a wreck now. She hadn’t thought she’d have this reaction. 

'I bet a lot of expectant mothers think that…'

Then—'Oh my God, I’m an expectant mother.'

Until she’d first glimpsed the child growing inside her, heard its heart pumping, the idea hadn’t fully struck her. But now…

As John said, holy fuck. 

When he beamed from ear to ear, it was genuine. It wasn’t a smartass smirk, nor a wry grin, but a rare, honest, doofy smile. She reached up a hand to palm his cheek. 

“Now, as you can see,” the doctor continued, pointing to the fetus on the screen. “We’re starting to see some development. The head is growing larger, and the hands and feet are forming. We are also getting some further brain formation. The neck, too, and chin are beginning to take shape.” 

“Kid looks like he’s enjoying himself in there. Just needs a little hammock and a daiquiri.”

“Yes, *she* looks quite comfortable,” Claire added pointedly about the developing baby lying on its back. 

John stared flatly at her. The gender of their upcoming child was going to be a habitual squabble, she could tell. 

Not that it particularly mattered what it was. They’d both adore it either way, she knew. But Claire and John would not be Claire-and-John without having something to argue over and annoy each other with. 

Dr. Devers pressed a button that zoomed in on the gestating Baby Bender. 'Or maybe Standish-Bender? Nah, that’s a mouthful, isn’t it?' “At this stage, the fetus is often in that position, a sort of c-shape. You can also make out the umbilical cord attached to the placenta. Through the umbilical cord, the baby gets oxygen and nutrition. That’s how you feed it.” 

Claire scoffed. “Then this kid doesn’t like *anything* I eat.” 

John laughed. 

Dr. Devers began printing out a copy of the sonogram. When he handed it to her, he said, still smiling, “I suppose congratulations are in order, Claire?” 

Claire nodded absently while studying the printout clutched in her hands. John’s hand, sans glove, was curled around her shoulder. 

The doctor’s next words jarred them right back to reality. “I’m sure Richard and Nora will be just thrilled.”

Claire bit her lip as she and John regarded each other dubiously. 

'Well, "thrilled" would be one way to put it…'  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, as promised!
> 
> Note 1: I did a lot of research into which tests are performed on the OBGYN's office. I also asked my mom, who was pregnant with me in the late 80s. She, apparently, had crap health coverage and couldn't even afford a single sonogram (which had been around in some form since the fifties). So it's nice to know that I was cared for in the womb with the cheapest OBGYN in Brooklyn.
> 
> Note 2: I've been to one of those posh offices. They are surreal, man. And, as someone in America who visits the doctor frequently (I have *many*, having a chronic condition), I know quite well what you have to do on the first appointment, anywhere. If I had a nickel for every time I signed my name on one of those pieces of paper, I'd be as rich as the Standishes.
> 
> Note 3: All those 1 percent families listed are actual "ooh la la" names in the Chicago area. I found them off the Forbes '89 list. The Warners, I assume, are the Ted Warners.
> 
> Note 4: I put up a sort of "cast" of the OCs. They are all 80s-appropriate. Jackie is Tamlyn Tomita, who was Kumiko in the "Karate Kid: Part II". Ty is a young Forest Whitaker, who was in "Fast Times". Claire's mom is 80s-era Goldie Hawn, like from "Overboard". Luckily, there is a lot to choose from in the "pretty blonde lady" 80s cauldron. Megan is Phoebe Cates, who I'm shocked wasn't in the Brat Pack. Natalie is Diane Lane. Sylvia is 80s Susan Sarandon. And Hideo is Akio Ohtsuka, who did and still does voiceovers for anime. Hard to find an era-appropriate Japanese or Japanese-American actor. What's up with that, 80s?


	9. Chapter 8: The A-Team (Part 1)

Chapter 8: The A-Team

The Chicago suburb of Shermer was laid out a bit…oddly. On the north side of town, above Hastings Street just below Sycamore, where the Standishes lived, lay what a certain population of the township dubbed Richieville. Where all the homes were over a certain number of enviable square feet. Where the driveways were circular. Where properties were safely protected behind wrought iron gates. On the south side was the “behind the tracks” portion of Shermer, where Bender and his most of his fellow burnouts had grown up. And then, somewhere in between, like a sandwich, was everything else. 

The Clarks lived in the Everything Else. 

In the Everything Else, interspersed with grocery and hardware stores, a hospital, a police station, et. al. that a suburb on the smaller side needed to thrive, were private homes. Mostly row houses and split levels, with a short three-minute drive to the school, Andy had, for the most part, enjoyed growing up right there. Everything was within walking distance, generally. If his mom needed him to pop to the store for some milk, it was just down the street. If he wanted to check out a new album, the record store was only one block over. And if the dog needed to be walked, well, the local park was right across the way.

Still, though he’d liked growing up here fine, Andy couldn’t wait to move to the big city for college. There was only so much going on at any given time in Shermer. It was a place where a couple divorcing ended up being the gossip du jour of the week. 

He should know. When his folks split up, his mom would call him in Chicago to complain about some of the crap their neighbors were spouting. The first time post-divorce he returned home on break, he heard the rumors himself. He went home and punched a wall in anger. 

Andy’s brother, Kyle, had been suspended once for smashing in the nose of a kid who claimed that the Clarks divorced because Mrs. Clark was having an affair with her boss.

Andy loved his burgeoning adult life and independence in Chicago. He loved being able to do things on his own, without having to ask anyone’s permission or give anyone a head’s up. He loved knowing that his apartment was indeed his. He loved knowing that he had a secure job once he graduated. 

But, today, he was happy to be home. 

Because, no matter where he was, Shermer would always have the hallmarks of home for him.

And also because today was his and Ally’s engagement party. 

Carol Clark had gone all out, booking the party room at the classiest restaurant in town, Pernillo’s. Andy remembered going there as a kid with his brothers for really special occasions—his parents’ anniversaries, his grandma’s seventy-fifth birthday, his cousin’s graduation. Now, it was his turn to sit in the big seat in the middle of the table. A childhood wish of his fulfilled. 

Andy knew that his father had put in half the money to rent this place out. No way could Carol have afforded it on her own. He was going to have to thank the man, and this set Andy’s teeth on edge. 

He loathed talking to his dad. Since his parents divorced and Tim Clark moved out, Andy had been successfully able to dodge him on most occasions over the past three years. Tim now lived in an apartment in Des Plaines with his girlfriend, a woman who was barely older than Andy himself was. Other than that, he didn’t really know much about her because it was easy staying out of his old man’s orbit. After all, he lived in Chicago now. When he did return home, it was to Shermer. Pretending that his father lived on the opposite side of the world instead of just in another town was fine with him.

Today, though, today, he’d be here. And Andy would have to man up and shake his hand. 

The place looked great. The tables were all set up. There were silver and black “Andrew & Allison” centerpieces in the middle of each. A giant picture of them, taken on their senior prom night, hung across one burgundy-painted wall. Scattered about the terra cotta floors were dried maroon rose petals. A Dom Perignon vintage was chilling in an ice bucket. 

It was so not Ally’s thing. She’d wanted to celebrate by going roller-skating and then getting smashed. But, in the end, they indulged Carol’s whims.

Andy frowned a bit as people—family he hadn’t seen in years—began pouring into the dining room. He couldn’t help being worried that his fiancée was sacrificing what she really wanted for their wedding to humor his mother. He knew Ally loved Carol like she was her own mom and didn’t want to disappoint her. And, while he of course loved his mother to death, too, he conceded that she could be a tad overbearing. He didn’t want Carol’s shadow to engulf Ally. 

He and Allison stood in the middle of the banquet room now, greeting everyone as they arrived. His Grandma Agatha. Uncle Ed and Aunt Betty. Grandpa and Grandma Clark. A handful of his cousins. Most of the attendants were from Andy’s side. Allison’s parents had sent the invitation back with their apologies, as Ally predicted, but Mrs. Reynolds had an announcement put in the paper. Her sister, Eleanor, was coming, though. 

At least she looked more like Ally today. Gone was the pink and preppy. Instead, she wore a black knee-length dress with a big, old bleeding heart emblem in the middle, black tights (actual tights, not the ones Bender insisted he wore), and a new pair of Chuck Taylors. Her thick brown hair was held back from her face with a velvet headband. She looked like a punk dreamgirl. 

And here Andy was, once again all prepped out in khaki chinos with creases sharp enough to cut someone, a polo shirt, and boat shoes. *He* looked like his grandfather. 

Speaking of Ally’s sister, Andy knew she’d arrived before he saw her; the painted-on smile of welcome on his fiancée’s face noticeably brightened. Eleanor Reynolds ducked through the door behind his Uncle Frank, squealed, and engulfed Allison in a hug. 

Andy smiled. At least she had *one* member of her family who wasn’t a complete asshole. 

“Oh my God!” Eleanor trilled once the two women pulled apart. “I can’t believe it. My baby sister is getting married!” 

Allison rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “You said that already. On the phone.”

“Yeah, but now you’re standing right in front of me and it’s your engagement party and oh my God, I’m so excited! Congratulations! And you, too, *brother*.” Eleanor hugged him so tight, he thought his bones would snap. She was stronger than she looked. 

Almost ten years Allison’s senior, Eleanor had been the model daughter the Reynolds were happy to show off. Their beauty queen. Their star gymnast. Their 4.0. Tall—nearly six feet—and blonde, with proportions to rival any runway model’s, the Reynolds had devoted most of their time and effort in molding Eleanor into the ideal after it became apparent that their youngest wasn’t interested in any of that. They hoped that she would graduate high school and go on to Stanford, where she could study and build a successful modeling career at the same time. That was their plan for Eleanor. 

It did not work out for Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds. Eleanor grew weary of dropping everything and twisting her life to please her parents and hated how they ignored Allison in her favor. Upon graduating from Shermer, she decided to take classes locally, majoring in photography, a passion of hers the Reynolds had pish-poshed. Now, she was a renowned photographer, bouncing around the world taking expert photos for 'National Geographic', 'Time', and 'Vanity Fair'. At thirty, she was founder and CEO of her own studio.

As if reading his mind, Eleanor added, “And of course I’m going to do your photos.”

“Oh, El, we can’t ask you to do that! You’re a guest.”

But Ally’s sister waved aside her concerns. “Pfft. Nonsense. I’m a photographer, Allison. I’m not going to let you pay hundreds of dollars for wedding photos when I can do it all for free.”

Andy’s jaw dropped. Eleanor’s pictures had been featured in national publications. And here she was offering to take their wedding photos. For *free*. 

Andy darted forward and enveloped Eleanor in an embrace. “Welcome to the family, sister.” 

Eleanor Reynolds laughed and, after gushing over Allison’s onyx ring, went to find her seat. 

Thank God, his friends started to arrive next. Brian actually appeared his age in a gray suit with Jackie, as always, on his arm in a green skirt and blouse. 

Brian presented Ally with a bouquet of Pixie Stix. “For the bride. Uh, I mean, bride-to-be.”

Allison looked thrilled. “Ooh, I’ll be sneaking these onto the wedding cake.”

Andy ran a hand through his hair, forgetting for a moment that he had saturated it in gel and now his palm was covered in goop. “Glad you guys are here. My mom invited everyone. People I haven’t seen since I was six are here.”

“That’s because so many people wuv you, Jockstrap.” 

Allison laughed. Andrew rolled his eyes, as was his general reaction to Bender. He and Claire walked into the dining hall, he like he owned the place, his arm around Claire’s shoulders. The once-and-continued-to-be burnout had cleaned up a bit more than usual. Gone were the faded jeans and ratty flannel, replaced with black slacks and an untucked white oxford. He still wore his denim jacket and the ever-present Doc Martins. 

Claire was her usual polished self in a light pink dress that fell below her knees. “Ally, you look so *good*. I’m so happy for you guys!” she trilled and enveloped his fiancée in a hug. Her voice, he noticed, was a little brighter than usual. In fact, her body language was almost jittery, like she was excited about something. 

No remarks about Allison wearing the black shit, either. How un-Claire. 

“Thanks, Claire,” Allison returned, glancing quickly askance at Andy. “You look great, too…” 

“Oh, this old thing?” She gestured down to her dress. “I’ve had it for years. I just threw it on.”

“Don’t listen to her. She tried on every dress, skirt, blouse, and whatever the fuck in the closet until she settled on that one.”

Andy figured Claire would smack him on the shoulder and scoff as usual but, instead, they shared a smile. A grin, really. Kind of giddy. 

He quirked one blond eyebrow. Bender and Claire weren’t *giddy*. 

It was Brian who cleared things up. Again, as usual. “Didn’t you guys have your first appointment with—with the obstetrician the other day?” 

Another grin. And a nod. 

“So?” Jackie urged. “How’d it go?”

Claire’s beam was wide enough to break her face. “We saw her on the ultrasound!”

“Yes, he looked very relaxed in there. Like he just needs a little TV and a remote. Hey, Princess, why don’t you swallow one, see what happens.”

The redhead shook her head good-naturedly. “We have a printout. We’ll show it to you guys later.” 

Ally and Jackie voiced excited congratulations. Andy chuckled and slapped Bender’s arm. “Dude, you’re gonna be a dad.”

“I guess now I can get one of those Number 1 Dad mugs.” His tone was flippant, but he was smiling. 

They were on high now, but Andy highly doubted it would all be giddy smiles throughout Claire’s pregnancy. 

After the four sat down, Steve “Stubbie” Marshall sailed into the room, arms splayed out. Andy laughed. He and Stubbie had been buddies since the beginning of freshman year at Shermer, when they both tried out for the baseball team. Blond with a perpetual tan even in the dead of winter, Stubbie had been known as Shermer High’s resident party animal. His events were the best, unrivaled. And he had parlayed that talent for showing people a rollicking good time by starting his own party-planning business straight out of high school. It was with Stubbie’s assistance that he was able to secure an awesome mostly abandoned cathedral in Winnetka, St. Francis’ Catholic Church, for the wedding. According to Stubbie, the place was a bit gloomy but totally safe due to private upkeep, contained quite a few interesting statues and looming stained glass windows, and the chapel especially had an air of “Dracula’s castle” about it. Ally had no idea yet. He was going to tour St. Francis’ himself first before he told her. She’d be psyched. 

“My main man getting married!” Stubbie bellowed. Some of Andy’s relatives turned to stare at the boisterous newcomer, but his friend didn’t seem to care. “Shit, we’re growing up. Miss Allison, lovely as always.” Stubbie bowed over her hand and kissed the back of it. 

Allison smirked. She’d always liked Stubbie. His old friend could be a real histrionic exhibitionist, and Ally loved it. Like the time he climbed the Shermer water tower to paint “Save Ferris” on the side when everyone thought Ferris Bueller was dying. Or when he went cliff-diving naked on a dare. 

Plus, Stubbie had been the one Sport to defend Andy against the other Sports when he started dating Allison. “Hey, who cares who he dates? It’s Andy’s life, let him live it. Don’t be turds, turds!” 

And that was that. No one really bothered him once Stubbie Marshall had his back. 

Andy grinned, and he and Stubbie enacted the complicated handshake every Sport at Shermer knew by heart. His friend pretended to grab him around the shoulders and instead whispered, “Set the date for the tour, bro. Next Saturday, noon. I’ll call with the exact address.”

He nodded and bumped Stubbie’s fist. “Thanks, man. Owe you.” 

Stubbie chuckled. “Whatever I can do to help facilitate the Reynolds-Clark marriage. Hey,” he added, louder now, staring at the table where Eleanor Reynolds was seated talking animatedly to his Aunt Pat. “Who’s that?”  
*  
Allison stepped forward, smiling wryly. “That* is my sister, Eleanor.” 

Stubbie looked as if Cupid had just shot him with his bow. 

Andy tagged him on the arm. “She’s almost ten years older than you, dude.” 

The goofy grin on Stubbie’s face grew a mile. “An older woman, eh? Well, I’m off to introduce Big Sister to the Stubmeister.” 

Ally and Andy’s gazes met, both snickering watching Steve “Stubbie” Marshall attempt suave and debonair as he introduced himself to Allison’s older sibling. 

Greg Clark, too, stopped in with his girlfriend, hulking over his younger brother by almost five inches. He caught Andy around the neck and dug his knuckles into his scalp in a noogie, as he’d done since they were kids. He, Jack, Kyle, and youngest brother Travis Clark, all of eleven, then jumped him in a sudden dogpile. Or a “Clarkpile”, as his mom called the spectacle. 

“Say uncle! Say uncle!” Greg was shouting. Travis was practically sitting on Andy’s chest. 

Above him, Allison was cackling. She thoroughly enjoyed bearing witness to a Clarkpile. 

“All right, all right! I give! Let me up before one of you breaks my ribs.”

A hand was held out to him. A thick hand. One sprinkled in wiry, graying hairs. 

Andy stared up at his father. Following an instant’s hesitation, he took the proffered hand and hauled himself to his feet. 

Only Travis walked forward to informally welcome their dad. The tweenager was still young enough to have not yet experienced Tim’s brand of child-rearing. 

Which was exactly why Carol intended on keeping their youngest away from varsity sports. She was actively encouraging his interest in art. Travis was thrilled whenever Allison was around to help him with his sketches. 

“Andrew,” the man greeted when he was finished ruffling Travis’ hair. 

Andy lowered his arm to his side. “Hi, Dad. Thanks for comin’.”

Tim nodded. “Well, it’s not every day your son gets engaged. Hello, boys.”

Jack narrowed his eyes, turned, and stomped away without a word. At eighteen, Jack was just about to graduate from Shermer. Their father had spent years grooming him to be a star football player, treating him exactly as he once had Andy. Keeping him up at all hours of the night weight-training. Waking him before dawn to run a few miles. Dragging him all across the state—and beyond—to see doctors who specialized in sports medicine and rehab. Publicly argued with his coach and referee whenever he disagreed with his calls. Pressuring him to win a scholarship. 

Andy had won his. Jack had not. And Tim’s ensuing meltdown was on an absurd level. 

After that, Jack up and quit football right in the middle of the season. Tim was apoplectic. Jack barely acknowledged his presence now. 

Their father swallowed audibly, awkwardly dipping his head. Beside him, his girlfriend, who couldn’t be older than twenty-four, rubbed his arm. 

Tim cleared his throat. “Um, this is Sasha. Sasha, my sons, Andrew, Gregory, Kyle, and Travis.” 

Greg was the first to reach over and shake her hand. Andy and the other boys followed suit. He wasn’t going to be an asshole to the woman. She appeared as out of her element as anyone had a right to be. 

“Nice to meet you,” Greg said with a passing smile. “We’re gonna go sit down. Clarks, forward!” 

Andy stood there shuffling his feet for a silent interlude. How did one go about talking to the man who had basically controlled his entire teenage existence and almost destroyed him mentally? 

Ally stepped up beside him. Tentatively, Tim Clark held out a hand, which she briefly took. His father had never really jived on Allison. He’d always preferred Andy to date the cheerleader types. Claire’s old high school friends. Didn’t surprise him that his old man could be as tyrannical about his love life as he was on the mat. 

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Andy cleared his throat. “And, uh, thanks. You know, for…this.” A wave of his arm to encompass the party. 

Tim once again nodded. “Like I said, it’s not every day your son gets engaged. So, uh, congratulations. Both of you.”

Ally acknowledged the sentiment with a fleeting smile of thanks. They both watched his old man and Sasha shuffle off to find their table. 

Andy expelled a breath. “Well. That wasn’t uncomfortable at all.” 

She took his hand in her smaller, long-fingered ones. Her nails were painted a deep mauve, rather bewitching against the background of her ivory skin. “You think it’s always going to be weird to see him?”

“Probably.” It was going to take a helluva lot more than paying for half of his engagement party to make up for nearly breaking him and his brothers their whole childhoods. 

Later, after dinner, a couple of people blitzed out from a combination of wine and Pernillo’s famously large portions, Greg tapped his fork against his glass, gathering everyone’s attention, and stood. 

“Everyone, for those that don’t know, though I don’t know why you’d be here if you didn’t, I’m Andy’s big brother.” Greg turned to him, seated beside Allison at the middle of the table, and winked. Andy bit back a groan. “I just want to congratulate my little bro. I remember when you were born. With that full head of hair. You were the only one in that nursery who wasn’t bald. Used to call you Hairy Head.” 

Everyone laughed, most notably Bender, who cackled the longest. “Hairy Head!” 

Blushing, Andy sank down in his chair. Allison nudged him, grinning. 

Greg continued, to his brother’s dismay. “You wanted to grow up so bad, you smeared your face in aftershave, drew a mustache under your nose with a marker, stole one of Dad’s coats, and grabbed a briefcase, claiming you were off to work. You were eight.” 

Again, the room erupted in amusement. Andy wanted to melt into the floor. 

“There better be a photo of that somewhere!” Bender again. Obviously. 

“Well, now you’re grown up for real. Grown up and getting married. That’s fricking crazy, you were twelve two years ago, weren’t you?” Greg chuckled and raised his glass.  
“You couldn’t have chosen a cooler wife, little bro. Allison, welcome to the family. I apologize on behalf of all of us ahead of time.”

More lively titters around the room. Allison’s beam widened. 

Greg toasted to “Raggedy Andy and Allison”. Everyone else raised their glasses and drank.

Later found the boys downstairs in the Clarks’ den. Andy’s mom insisted that “the kids” crash at the old homestead, as most of them had had a wee bit too much to drink—sans Claire, who just sipped cider. Though the two-floor split level wasn’t that big, Carol’s mothering instincts kicked in at seeing all the wobbly twenty-somethings and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Besides, Andy didn’t want to risk driving home in his less than functional state. 

His friends had been all too willing to take Carol Clark up on her offer/demand. All of them lived in the Chicago metro area—minus Brian’s place in Evanston—and it was Saturday night. Everyone and their party-hopping mothers would be driving into the city now. No one particularly wanted to loiter in traffic for the hour it would doubtlessly take to get home. 

So, Andy’s mom dug out his brothers’ old sleeping bags, rolled the cot up from the basement, and even left out a few extra pairs of pajamas and toothbrushes. It was going to be a full house tonight, and not the John Stamos kind. And that was how his mom liked it. She was never happier than when she was puttering around children, all grown up as they were or not. When she felt *needed*. Those last few years with Tim, the very last thing she felt was needed. More a nuisance that only served to intervene when she realized her then husband was going too far with their sons’ training. Thus, in his father’s words, “not allowing our boys to become men!” 

Seated on the couch, Andy scoffed into his beer bottle, then took a sip. 

Yeah. It was *definitely* going to take more than putting up half the dough for his and Ally’s engagement party to make up for all those years of hell. 

Upstairs, the girls were already in their nightclothes, watching 'Dirty Dancing' with Carol. Meanwhile, he and the rest of the guys were splayed out in the furnished basement. Beside him, Bender was leant forward, furiously pressing the buttons of a Nintendo controller as he played Super Mario Bros with Stubbie, who was perched on an adjacent loveseat. 

“Damnit! Fucking Koopa Troopa came out of nowhere!” 

“Hahaha! My turn, mother fucker.” 

“You’ll never beat my score.”

“Wanna bet? Put your money where your mouth is, burnout.” 

“You got it, jockstrap. Fifteen bucks says you can’t top I’m-a Mario!” 

“You’re on, dingus.” 

Twenty minutes later, Luigi had toppled Mario. Bender sat there fuming. Andy was laughing. 

Stubbie grinned. “Pay up, loser.”

Bender reached into his jacket pocket, produced that same infamous wallet, and reluctantly slapped fifteen dollars in Stubbie’s palm. “I’ll get you next time.”

“Yeah, right. Wanna play Double Dragon?”

“Game on! I’ll kick your ass!”

Stubbie blew on the copy of Double Dragon, then loaded it into the Nintendo. Determined now after losing in Mario, Bender’s Rowper immediately came out swinging.  
\  
Andy continued to quietly sip his beer, watching Rowper and Chin kick the crap out of each other. 

“Kiss my ass, jackhole!” Stubbie.

“Eat my shorts, dickweed!” Bender.

“Fellas, remember, it’s only a game—“ Brian, trying to insert some levity.

“Shut up, Brainiac!” Both Stubbie and Bender in unison, as if rehearsed. 

Andy chuckled. His friends were ridiculous, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Stubbie had always gotten on easily with the rest of the Breakfast Club. He had a thing for sci-fi, so he was able to go toe to toe with Brian and Jackie talking about 'Star Wars' and 'Star Trek' until the end of time. Allison enjoyed the fact that he didn’t give any shits. Claire had always appreciated how affable and non-judgmental he was. Bender liked that Stubbie was a party animal and could get him concert tickets at a steal. 

That was how he’d gotten his nickname, Stubbie. Through hush-hush mechanics he refused to reveal the source of, he was Shermer’s answer to Ticketmaster. But “Stubbie” sounded better than “Ticketie”. 

Andy just appreciated that all his friends got along. The guys who’d given him crap for being with Allison originally weren’t worth his time, and it hadn’t taken long for him to realize that. 

TKO, Rowper. Bender whooped while Stubbie groaned. “Fuck yeah! I am the champ. 'We are the champions, my frieeeends!'”

“Asshole, stop singing. You’re gonna make my ears bleed.” Andy hurled his mom’s Home Sweet Home throw pillow at Bender’s face. 

“Yeah, screw you, Sporto. You know I sound like an angel.” Bender threw the pillow back at him. 

“Lucifer, maybe,” Stubbie flung as he crossed to the little refrigerator in the basement and retrieved another beer. 

Not at all offended, Bender made the sign of the horns. 

“I hope you never sing for your kid. You’ll either make it hate you or deafen it.” Andy pushed the pillow behind his back and rested his legs on an ottoman. 

Back on the loveseat, Stubbie leaned forward. “Kid? There something I’m not aware of?”

Before either Bender or Andy could reply, Brian cut in with a simple explanation. “John and Claire are, um, expecting.” When Bender shot him a baleful glare, Bri held up his hands. “What? You are.”

“Thanks, Brainiac.” Bender knocked back his bottle, which, Andy noticed, was mostly full. Strange. The guy would usually be on his third by now. “Claire doesn’t want everyone knowing until she’s starting to show.” 

Andy’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

A shrug. “Something about ‘bad luck’ or whatever. I don’t know.” 

Stubbie nearly choked on his beer. “You? *You* knocked up your girlfriend? Jesus.” 

Now, he looked offended and pissed off. “You wanna make something of it, jockstrap?” 

But Stubbie was still chortling. “I can’t believe the wastoid’s gonna be the first of us to be a dad.”

“I can,” Bri muttered, then flushed when Bender glared at him again. 

Bender opened a nearby bag of chips. “Well, I am! So, fuck you.” 

Stubbie’s guffaws increased. “Do her folks know?” 

“Not yet.”

“They’re gonna shit a brick. Or at least Nora will.” 

A richie himself, Stubbie’s family lived just north of Sycamore. The Marshalls belonged to the same country club the Standishes did. He was thus very aware of Nora Standish and her penchant for entitled, elitist absurdity. 

Andy had only met the woman twice. The first was at Claire’s birthday dinner at a fancy restaurant in Chicago, where she treated the waitress like a second-class citizen who only existed to serve at her beck and call then didn’t leave her a tip. The second time, he and his mom ran into her at the mall, where she looked Carol up and down and declared her dress “interesting”. Her tone had not conveyed that this was a good thing. 

He always wondered how Claire had lived with a woman like that for eighteen years. 

Bender groaned after swallowing a potato chip. “Don’t remind me. That woman is Satan in heels.” 

“I hate to agree with Bender—you know, about most things—but that is an accurate assessment.” Andy cringed, recollecting the spectacle of Claire’s twenty-first birthday dinner. 

Brian nodded with slightly widened eyes. He’d had his own run-ins with Nora Standish. 

Stubbie chuckled as he and Bender began another round of virtual ass-kicking. “Don’t gotta convince me. She goes to Eastlake every other week. Dad calls her Noracaine Standish.” 

All four boys guffawed, then winced. Also an accurate assessment. 

“So, when are you planning on telling ‘em?” he continued as Chin sent a roundhouse kick to Rowder’s face. 

Bender shrugged with his tongue slightly sticking out the side of his mouth. He was very concentrated on the match. “That’s her call. I’ll just be there for…” 

Brian raised his eyebrows. “For?”

Bender grimaced. “Moral support.” 

Stubbie threw back his blond head and laughed to the ceiling. “She’s gonna flay you alive. Maybe have their chef put you in a nice stir-fry.” 

The momentary distraction was enough for Rowder to score another TKO. “Ha! Beat you again, jockstrap.” 

“Fuck!”  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter focuses on the girls' night upstairs.
> 
> Note 1: The first anecdote Greg regales about Andy is from me. When my brother was born, he was the only baby in the nursery with hair (we also thought he was gonna be a girl; early 90s sonograms). So I would call him Hairy Head. Sometimes, I still do.
> 
> Note 2: I put up more OC casting on my profile. I picked William Zabka, who we all know as Johnny Lawrence in The Karate Kid among other things, as Stubbie, casting against type to place him as not a jackass as usual. Eleanor Reynolds is Michelle Pfeiffer, who was 31 in '89, from Grease 2 and everything else. Greg Clark is a Footloose-era Kevin Bacon. Jack Clark is fellow Brat Packer Rob Lowe. Kyle Clark is a young Ethan Hawke. And Travis Clark is a *very* young Seth Green, who played the younger brother to Patrick Dempsey in Can't Buy Me Love.
> 
> Note 3: Since all we know about Stubbie is that he threw a wicked party that Saturday, I figure maybe he's a party hardy animal. Like 90210's Steve Sanders, who tried to parlay his love of partying into a career. Didn't entirely work out when one of his raves burnt the rented house down and almost killed Kelly Taylor (man, that girl has survived everything).


	10. Chapter 9: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (Part II)

Chapter 9: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (Part II)

Meanwhile, upstairs in the living room, the four girls—Claire, Jackie, Eleanor, and Allison—were comfortably seated on the couch in a combination of pajama tops and scrub pants Carol Clark had taken home from Shermer General. The woman herself kept puttering about, alternately traveling to the kitchen to retrieve “movie snacks” or put tea on the kettle and returning to the overstuffed couch to watch the film. The youngest Clark, Travis, was also in attendance, slumped in an upholstered wing chair playing his recently acquired Gameboy. The sounds of Tetris would occasionally interrupt Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze, so Carol had made him turn the volume down. 

The kid was paying more attention to the movie anyway but pretending otherwise. 

Allison reached for one of the peanut butter cookies Carol had arranged on a silver tray. “Oh, Patrick really rocks those tight jeans.”

Her sister, mass of blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, sipped her glass of Chardonnay. She was the only one Carol had agreed to pour additional alcohol for. “He rocks a lot of things.”

Claire grinned and palmed a handful of popcorn. “Like my world.” 

“Mmhmm.” Three out of four women agreed. Jackie was the lone holdout. 

“I suppose,” she pontificated. “But he’s no Brian.” 

As one, Allison, Eleanor, and Claire scrunched their noses and stared at her. 

Jackie glanced around the half-circle they formed across the Clarks’ living room furniture. “What?” 

“Sometimes, I forget how out there you are,” Ally intoned around a mouthful of cookie. 

Claire snorted. “Look who’s talking.” 

Allison shrugged, silently agreeing. With Carol’s permission, she had doodled all over her pajama-scrubs with a Sharpie and cut off the sleeves of the pajama top. Her thick brown hair, no longer contained by the headband, rolled down her back in wild waves. She had no one she needed to pretend in front of anymore. She could be as “Allylike” as she wished. 

Carol returned with another tray of steaming cups of tea and coffee. “Okay, girls. You can each take one, but there’s more where that came from!” Allison’s soon-to-be mother-in-law set the wooden serving tray atop the coffee table. 

Ally beamed around her teacup. She couldn’t wait to join this family. The Clarks were the familial unit she’d been lacking all her life until she met Andrew. Only Eleanor had been her champion all those years. Her parents acted like she didn’t exist, like they regretted that they’d even had her to begin with, often leaving her with the nanny while they traveled throughout Illinois pursuing pageant after pageant with an increasingly reluctant Eleanor in tow. She didn’t have much extended family, either. Her father was an only child, and her mother’s only sister, her Aunt Selma, lived in Nevada with her boyfriend. 

When Eleanor flew the coop to pursue her dreams, Allison was totally alone. Until the Breakfast Club. Until Andy.

The Clarks made her feel like one of the family already, and had done so since day one.

Beside her on the sofa, Claire gazed longingly at the coffee. Apparently, she had to watch her caffeine intake now that she was carrying a Bouncing Baby Bender in her womb. Allison knew that Claire’s one vice was coffee. She had no problem staying away from the alcohol and the weed, she didn’t smoke, but coffee was her life preserver. A sixteen ounce was practically perma-glued to her palm. Not now, though. Claire had already indulged once today. 

Biting her lip, the redhead’s fingers twitched toward an inviting green mug. Jackie slapped her hand away before her fingers could curl around the handle. “Ow! Hey!”

Brian’s girlfriend was unrepentant. “You had a cup earlier. No more caffeine, Standish.” 

Allison cackled as Claire frowned. “But…it smells so good! I just wanted to inhale the aroma, I swear!” 

Jackie did not look appeased. “Uh huh.” 

Claire gestured widely to the steaming mug. “We don’t even know if caffeine will do anything!” 

“Better safe than sorry. I would not be any kind of pediatrician if I allowed you another drop.” 

Arms folded over her chest, Claire threw herself back against the couch. Allison continued to laugh. 

Carol was staring at the redhead. “Dear, why can’t you have any caffeine?” 

Before Claire could respond, Allison cut in. “’Cus she’s knocked up.” 

“Allison!”

Ally shrugged. “Well, you are!” 

“I know but…you make it sound so…crude.” Her friend waved one manicured hand vaguely. 

On the lounge to her right, Eleanor squealed and beamed from ear to ear. “Oh my God! You’re having a baby?!” 

Unsuccessfully fighting a smile, Claire nodded. Reaching for the Fendi clutch she’d worn earlier, she dug through its contents until she plucked a white printout from the din. Then, she passed it to Eleanor. 

“Oh my God!” "Oh my God" was Allison’s sister’s favorite exclamation, it seemed. “Oh my God! That’s so great! Congratulations!” 

Ally had already seen the printout of the sonogram earlier, but she still scooched over to study it again. “Man, it looks just like a regular, old baby. I half expected it to be smoking a doobie in there.” 

“Ha-ha,” Claire drawled as she took back the piece of paper. 

Carol, too, was beaming. “Oh, let me see! I just love babies!” Once Claire passed her the printout, Andy’s mom’s blue eyes began shining. “Oh! Congratulations, sweetheart. You’re going to make a wonderful mother.” 

Claire was blushing. She never blushed, even as a redhead. “Thank you, Mrs. Clark.” 

Great mom, sure, but Claire was going to burst into tears the first time that baby spit up all over her designer duds. Allison snickered into her teacup. 

Eleanor was looking at her like she knew exactly what her sister was thinking and did not approve. The snickers continued. 

Claire, too, was glaring at her. Was she that obvious? “We’re not telling many people until I’m further along. I haven’t told my parents yet, so *please* no one say anything!”

Allison mimed locking her lips. Jackie and Eleanor nodded. 

Carol gave her back the picture. “Of course not, dear. I won’t say a word.”

Ally’s future mother-in-law made a little face. Any excuse not to talk to Nora Standish was fine with her. Indeed, fine with most people, her husband included. 

“You never told us how Bender reacted when you told him.” Allison stared askance at her whilst she sipped her tea. 

Claire scoffed. “He thought I was playing an April Fool’s Day prank on him at first. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it if I was.” Her hand rose to smooth the back of her hair.   
Claire was still smarting over that Nair-shampoo prank from two years ago. 

Eleanor laughed. “Boys.”

“Men,” all the women chorused in agreement. Travis glanced up from his Gameboy, shrugged, then resumed playing. 

Carol sighed, staring at the television. Johnny was saying goodbye to Baby beside his Corvette. “Why can’t all men be like Patrick Swayze?” 

“Or Brian,” Jackie added. 

The girls murmured their assent. 

Across the coffee table, in the wing chair, Travis again glanced up from his game to regard his mother. “Mom, what’s ‘knocked up’ mean?” 

Allison nearly choked on her tea.  
**

It couldn’t have happened at a worse time. 

It was the middle of the night—actually, very early morning, according to the green numbers on the VCR, out of which spat the video cassette of Dirty Dancing—and they weren’t even *home*. Worst and most awkward of all, the Clark house was full to bursting with slumbering bodies. Allison and Andy were upstairs in the latter’s old bedroom, sharing his old twin bed like they used to in high school (Ally always farthest away from the wall so that she could climb down and crawl under in case Mr. or Mrs. Clark peeked in to check on Andrew, as she’d gleefully revealed to their revolted and intrigued friends). Kyle and Travis were asleep in their shared bedroom; Jack had gone back with Greg to his apartment. Carol was asleep in her own bedroom. Eleanor lay snoring on the floor in a blue sleeping bag—“It’s better for my back!”—while Claire had claimed the sofa. 

But she still couldn’t fall asleep. And it had nothing to do with Eleanor’s light snoring. 

Claire groaned quietly. Her hormones were going to be the end of her. Her reputation, at the very least. 

It was 3 AM. They had all gone to bed near midnight, about an hour after the movie ended. In the intervening three hours, Claire had slept a total of forty-five minutes. All because her hormones were being stupid. Again. 

She’d tried creeping to the kitchen to grab a snack, hoping that an extra piece of cake could allay her…quandary for the rest of the night. When that hadn’t helped, she turned on the TV really softly after making sure Eleanor was sound asleep. Maybe some late night television could distract her. 

But nope. All that was on at this time of night were infomercials and ads for phone sex hotlines. 

This only made things worse, so she flipped it off. Now, Claire stared unseeingly at the dark ceiling, wide awake, and sucking on her lower lip. 

'This is bad. This is really bad.'

Right? 

'Yes! Of course it’s bad. You can’t…not *here*!'

Claire was very, very tempted to…take care of the problem herself. But A. she didn’t feel comfortable doing so with Allison’s sister sleeping nearby and B. in the living room, she was kind of out in the open and was terrified that someone would tiptoe downstairs for a drink of water or something. 

With the weird luck she’d been having lately, that would definitely happen. And it’d be young Travis. 

'Okay, close your eyes. Just try to sleep. Think about sheep jumping over the fence. Baseball. Vernon.' 

Claire cringed at this last and fluttered her eyelids closed. 

A few seconds later, she was moaning under her breath as a very non-Vernon image blinked into her mind. Her eyes shot open. 

'Oh, for fuck’s sake.'

Indeed. For *fuck’s* sake. 

Claire kicked the rainbow afghan Carol Clark had given her to sleep with off her suddenly overheated skin. 'This is a cosmic joke, isn’t it? I’m being pranked by God. Or the universe. Or whatever.' 

The universe was a jerk like John. 

Definitely not as sexy as her boyfriend, though. 

Claire blinked her eyes toward the den door. It lay just across the room. Partially ajar. She wouldn’t even have to turn the knob…

'Oh, God. I hate myself.'

Admitting defeat against the whims of her hormones, Claire sat up. On the floor a few paces away, Eleanor continued to slumber. Cautiously so as not to step on her, two pink-pedicured feet lowered themselves to the soft carpet. As Claire took two steps toward the den, the floor creaked, and she winced, stalling. Eleanor just snored on. 

'I can’t believe I’m doing this.'

The whole idea, the whole situation, was absurd. Spending the night in a friend’s childhood home, surrounded by many more sleeping friends, unable to succumb to the Land of Nod herself, creeping through the house at 3 AM like she was about to rob someone… 

'I am such a freak.'

Upon reaching the door to the den, it, too, creaked when she pushed it open. Claire cringed but kept walking. 

The basement was flooded with the sound of snoring men. On the couch, Brian lay with one leg off the side, flat on his back and totally sound asleep. Meanwhile, on the loveseat adjacent, Stubbie was sprawled out, one hand over his head and the other hanging down, mouth open while he snored, the coverlet balled up around his feet. Claire shook her head and gazed around. 

Brian, Stubbie, television, little refrigerator, dartboard…

Where the hell was John?

Pursing her lips, Claire turned and ventured deeper into the basement. Another door in the very back of the room she’d forgotten existed led to, she thought, a study of sorts with a computer and a towering shelf of books. She pushed herself past the half-open door and, yup, there was John, asleep atop a pool table. Why he’d chosen *there* to sleep, she had no idea and wasn’t going to begin to guess.

Instead, she walked to the pool table and softly called his name. “John?”

Snore. 

“John, wake up.” 

Snore, snore. 

Claire rolled her eyes. He could fall into a deep sleep anywhere. He’d be deep in La La Land on a bed of nails. Gently, she shook his arm and whispered his name louder. “John!” 

That did it. With a jolt, his dark eyes shot open mid-snore, frantically gazing around him. His eyes were wide and sweat beaded his forehead. Claire instantly felt horrible. She was familiar with this reaction; he’d woken up just like this before, usually after being roused, heart hammering so hard she swore she could hear it. PTSD from living with his monster of a father, who’d sometimes roughly wake him up in the middle of the night with the sole intention of beating on him, just because the man was angry about something. 

“Wh—what?! Wha—huh?” 

'Oh, what’s wrong with me?' Claire reached out a calming hand. “John! It’s okay, it’s just me.” 

Finally, John’s gaze settled on her. He noticeably began to relax, but only somewhat. “Claire? Jesus.” Wincing, he moved to rub at a crick in his neck, doubtlessly acquired from sleeping on this thing. It didn’t look very comfortable. Claire did it for him, and his shoulders grew much less tense. 

He always liked it when she rubbed his neck. He melted into a puddle of goo. 

Meeting her eyes again, he asked, much too loudly, “What are you doing here?” Then, glancing at her stomach—“What’s wrong?!”

Unconsciously, Claire’s free hand fluttered to her abdomen. “No—nothing’s *wrong*. I just…” 

Despite being a redhead and thus having skin that burned to a crisp at the mere suggestion of sun—but *clear* skin, thank you—Claire Standish was not a blusher. Probably because she didn’t embarrass easily. But here, now, she felt her face flaming. 

John was gawking at her with plain uncertainty. Like he was prepared to jump up and run her to the hospital. 

Again, she felt like shit. 'Stupid fucking hormones.'

Smiling like a phony, she patted his hand. “Sorry. It’s nothing. Um, go back to sleep.” 

As she was turning on her heel to slink back upstairs, heat still suffusing her cheeks…and other areas, Claire felt a hand curl around her wrist. 

John’s gaze was intense; she could determine that even in the creepy darkness of the study. “Cherry. What is it?”

This was the absolute last thing Claire wanted to explain. How did one even begin to try? It was one of the few moments in her life where Claire felt ridiculous. She sighed and lowered her head. “I can’t sleep. That’s all.”

That wasn’t all. 

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

If only she could bury her head in the sand. Or maybe dunk it in ice water. 

Yep, where was that bucket of ice when you needed it?

Twittering on her toes, twisting from side to side, Claire clasped both hands behind her back. Not even out of her first trimester, and pregnancy was making her absurd. “Hormones.” The word was muttered beneath her breath. 

“What?”

She pursed her lips. “Hormones!” 'Oh, good grief. I hope I haven’t just woken up everyone.' “I mean…I mean, I’m…” 

'Oh, for the love of God.'

Claire knew the very second understanding dawned. A giddy sparkle flashed in his eyes and a slow, lazy smirk stretched the width of his face. 

Claire yearned to melt into the floor. 

“Oh. Hormones, eh? I see…” 

Blinking her eyes skyward to distract herself from feeling like the world’s biggest idiot, Claire took another step backwards. “John, it’s fine. Just go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

The smirk widened. “I’m not.” 

The blush deepened. “John—“

And then, his lips were on hers, and she was the one to turn to goo this time. 

Since that very first, unexpectedly gentle, embrace outside the school five years ago, John’s kisses never failed to make Claire’s toes curl in her shoes. She’d known, obviously, going into this with him that he was much more experienced than she was…in pretty much everything. While he’d padded his reputation a bit—despite his insistence, Claire *had* recognized a few of those wallet pictures from magazines—the fact was, he’d had quite a few “considered girls” when she and John began dating. Some of them even confronted her when their relationship became public knowledge. 

One girl, Holly Grier, had been *really* pissed off. She challenged her outside their shared history class and basically accused Claire of being a “stupid richie bitch” who was slumming it with John Bender. 

Claire had felt terrible but didn’t tell John about the encounter with Holly. The girl may have caught real feelings and, to her, Claire had come out of nowhere. 

And that’s when Claire knew that she was evolving because it wasn’t that long before that she wouldn’t have given a single shit. Probably would’ve responded with her iciest smile and expressed how she was “like, so sorry you’re hurting. So sorry!” and bounced away. 

Holly and John’s other former “Wallet Girls” may have been convinced that she was just slumming, but the fact was simply that she really liked a boy and that boy knew how to kiss. 

Before John, Claire’s, ahem, few *interactions* with guys had been stilted and awkward. It was mainly why she’d stayed a virgin while all her friends were losing their own V-cards and experimenting. No one had ever really piqued her interest. No one had ever made her see fireworks behind her eyes when his lips brushed hers. 

Until John. And it wasn’t long before those fireworks grew to an all-encompassing inferno. With him, Claire felt like a one-woman Chicago fire. 

Rather why their own *interactions* zoomed from zero to high-speed car chase right quick. 

Claire felt her knees going weak when his tongue plumbed her mouth and one hand found purchase on the side of her face; the other began trailing up the back of her pajama top. Her arms wrapped themselves around his neck of their own volition. She was not in control of her extremities. 

As her fingers began to entangle in his thick hair and he started to walk her back toward a wall, she blinked back to reality. Gently, reluctantly, she pulled back, leaving a few inches’ space between them. “We can’t here, John.”

His answering smile was lazy. “Sure we can!” And he gestured to the pool table he’d just vacated. 

Claire’s eyes narrowed. “I am *not* having sex on a pool table.” 

John crossed his arms, grin still in place. “Come on, Cherry. Live a little. Don’t you want to be…spontaneous? We’ve never tried a pool table. There were those few times on that weird settee in the living room. Once on top of the washing machine in the laundry. In the kitchen. In the bathroom of that fancy French restaurant you like. In the back of my car. The shower. In Vernon’s old office back in high school. In an actual pool. And of course the bed, but—“ 

Claire could actually feel her ears heating. Scowling, she whacked him on the arm. “Jesus, John! What, do you keep a tally or something?” 

She expected him to say no. Instead, he just shrugged and replied, “Or something.” 

“John!”

“What? No one will see it. It’s not like I made a huge dartboard. But now that I think about it, that’s an interesting idea…” 

Claire’s lips flattened. “I’m going back to bed.” 

But he stepped closer to her, the heat of his skin warming hers even through the cotton of his shirt. He had shucked his oxford as soon as they left Pernillo’s and now only wore a white cotton undershirt over a pair of borrowed scrub pants. The muscles of his arms strained against the sleeves, and the stare in his eyes was hungry. Claire about melted. Like a popsicle. 

Again, John placed one hand on her hip, massaging the skin there. The second was braced against the wall beside her head. She swallowed past the lump rising in her throat. It was the same reaction she’d had all those years ago in detention, when he was trying to get her all hot and bothered with his 'over the panties, no bra' talk. It had worked then, and it was working now. 

The difference between then and now was, now she knew what he’d been going on about. 

“You came down here for a reason, Princess,” he reminded her. His voice was low and rumbly. Sexy. Claire’s muscles slackened, and his grin widened. He knew his effect on her, the asshole. “I’m only all too happy to help you out.”

“I’m sure you are.” The retort came out less sarcastic, as she had intended, and way more languid and breathy. 

John quirked an eyebrow, as if to say “So?” 

It was her call. She could either go back upstairs and forget this ever happened or…live with the chance that any one—or more—of their friends could catch them at any time.

His eyes burned. Heat pooled in hidden places.

'Oh, fuck it.' 

Grabbing the front of his shirt to pull him toward her, she kissed him with such ferocity, she surprised even herself. John as well, judging by the widened eyes, but if he was shocked, it was delightedly so. Pushing her back against the wall, one arm wrapped around her waist, he began fumbling for the tie of his pajama scrubs. Stepping out of them, clad now in only his boxers, he without words urged her to wrap her legs around his hips. 

Entirely lost in the moment now, allowing that same fire to ravage her every thought and action, Claire was only too eager to comply. 

It was only when they heard steps outside the closed door of the study that they froze. Her arms and legs were still wrapped around him and he had her top half off. 

“Shit,” John whispered, and Claire immediately started to scramble off in case someone, anyone, caught them literally with their pants down. 

Outside the study door, Brian’s voice sleepily but clearly mumbled, “Bathroom. Need to pee. Bathroom…”

The nearest bathroom was just off the study. Brian would have to come through the room to get to it. 

Quickly, Claire jumped off her boyfriend and, after a quick look around, slid under the pool table. John leaped on top of it and pulled the covers over himself, pretending to be asleep. 

Claire only hoped it was dark enough and Brian was out of it enough to miss her. 

Crouched under the pool table, she watched Brian push the study door open and amble to the small bathroom like a zombie. The light briefly shown under the bathroom door, there was the sound of water hitting water, a faucet running, and then Brian shut the light and shuffled out. He didn’t even look in the table’s direction as he noisily closed the study door behind him. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Claire crawled out from under the pool table. John was in the midst of throwing off the coverlet and jumping off. 

“Jesus,” she mumbled, regarding him. John did not appear any less…interested. Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “John, we almost got caught!”

He smirked, reversing course and backing her up against the pool table. Her butt hit the edge. “I know. It’s kinda hot, isn’t it? Knowing we can be discovered at any moment?”

Yes. Yes, it was. And so was his talented lips kissing her neck. Claire’s knees turned to mush again. 

“S—someone will come in again…” she stuttered, even as her hands rose to splay his back. She loved his back. It was strong and capable and able to lift really heavy stuff; she could feel the muscles rippling under her palms. 

John pulled away and she almost whined out loud. Like a puppy denied a bone. 

'What an apt analogy.'

Holding up one finger, he padded over to the wooden desk chair, quietly dragged it over to the door, and pushed the back under the brass knob. In satisfaction, he nodded and returned to her with an eager bounce in his step. Claire almost rolled her eyes. After five years, he could still be like a little kid being awarded a cookie for good behavior when it came to sex. 

Then, he wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed her like he was dehydrated and she was the only source of water, and Claire forgot everything else. 

They made good use of the pool table that night. 

She just hoped Carol Clark never found out.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: time to tell Mommy and Daddy.
> 
> Note 1: The Gameboy had literally JUST come out that month in 1989, so I am going to imagine that the thing Travis is playing cost a pretty penny. 
> 
> Note 2: RIP, Patrick Swayze <3 "Dirty Dancing", other than "Heathers", is my favorite non-Hughes 80s movie. 
> 
> Note 3: Somehow, I can very easily picture Bender sleeping on a pool table. And choosing so.


	11. Chapter 10: Risky Business

Chapter 10: Risky Business 

It was the day that Bender had been dreading.

All starting with this conversation—“John, I want to tell my parents when I enter my second trimester”—he’d, at the time, shrugged and mumbled “Your call, Princess” then went back to watching the WWF cage match on TV. It was between Hulk Hogan and Bret “the Hit Man” Hart, and he’d purposely stocked up on Tostitos and root beer (he was trying to cut down on the alcohol) for the occasion. Could anyone blame him for not totally listening? It was Hogan vs. Bret Hart! And Claire was forever nagging in his ear while he was trying to relax; at this point, he’d automatically begun tuning her out. Surely, it was just habit by now. 

So, after her next monthly appointment and Dr. Devers declared her to be officially in her second trimester, she sighed, looked down at her slightly distended abdomen, and said, “I guess it’s time to tell them.” And he still hadn’t been paying attention because, in his defense, he’d been driving. Chicago traffic was hell on Earth during rush hour. 

Meandering through downtown traffic at after five was insane and required all of one’s concentration. 

Bender mainly just nodded along as though he’d heard her over Axl Rose shrieking about Paradise City. 

As such, when, on the weekend of June 2nd, Claire told him that she’d made reservations at this hoity-toity French place in Northbrook, he blurted “Why?” in abject confusion and mentally tallied dates in his head.

'Am I missing something? Birthday—No, Claire’s birthday is in December. Anniversary—Nope, that was in March. Some bullshit holiday or something?' 

For a moment, he considered that he’d forgotten his *own* birthday. He had been working hard and thus was a wee bit distracted. But no, he turned twenty-two in September. 

Claire stared at him wearing a blank expression. They were getting ready for bed, and her breasts were pouring out the top of her little pink negligee. It was difficult to wrest his attention from them. “I told you weeks ago that I’m telling my parents after my second trimester, John. And my eyes are up here, you perv.” 

Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from her delectable chest. They were definitely bigger. “You did?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “I did. So I made a reservation at La Madeleine.”

“That fancy-pants place in Northbrook?”

“It’s my mother’s favorite restaurant,” she explained. “I figure it’ll…soften the blow. And we’ll be in public so maybe she won’t go *too* ballistic.” 

Bender wondered if Claire knew her mother at all. 

That was how he found himself stuffed into one of those monkey suits—again—and following the restaurant’s maître d' to a table in the back. He’d borrowed one of Sporto’s suits, a slate gray thing with pleats, that was a bit too tight and short on him since he was taller than the Jockstrap. He was even wearing a tie. Bender fucking hated ties; they felt like leashes. Still, Claire had insisted and did the thing up for him when he realized he had no idea how to tie a tie. He’d put his foot down over the vest the suit came with, though. There was no way in hell he was going to put *that* on. 

Fucking vest. Really?

At the table, he pulled out one claw-footed chair for Claire and then sat down beside her. Trying to pretend that he was not shitting a brick at the thought of confessing to the Standishes that he’d impregnated their daughter. Richard Standish had regularly championed him against his bitch wife, but he figured that he’d probably lose a fuckton of points with the guy now. 

Well, shit. 

Claire lay a hand on his own bare one. Bender ached for his gloves. “Relax.”

“I’m relaxed,” he insisted. Her answering look clearly conveyed that she did not believe him for a second. 

“Hey, isn’t that Brian?” Claire was looking toward her left. 

Bender furrowed his brow. “Brainiac? Where?” 

“A few tables down.”

Ah. Yep, there was Dorktron; he’d recognize that puffed out blond mess on the dude’s head anywhere. Their brainy friend was seated at a circular table with Lady Dorktron and who seemed to be her parents, a bespectacled Japanese guy in a business suit and a lofty woman with wildly curly ginger hair. 

He grinned and raised an arm. “Yo, Brainiacs!” 

Bender’s shout caused everyone in the near vicinity to stare at him, most with scathing expressions—at least those who could still move their facial muscles after too many facelifts and Botox injections. He didn’t particularly care. 

Big Bri and Jackie turned automatically in their seats. The latter smiled. Brian ducked a bit in his chair and wiggled his hand in acknowledgement. 

“John!” Claire whacked his shoulder. It was the response he was anticipating. 

He faced her. “What?”

“Did you have to embarrass them like that?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.” Bender chuckled under his breath watching Jackie’s father glaring at Brian like the Dork had been the one to cause the little scene. 

She pursed her lips and shook her head, then mouthed ‘Sorry’ in Bri’s general direction. 

A few moments later, the Standishes came into view behind the skinny as hell maître d' with the weird Clark Gable mustache, and all of Bender’s momentary amusement evaporated. 

'Aw, hell.' 

First to break through the crowd was comparably genial Richard Standish. Bender supposed he’d be a good-looking dude for hordes of older women (heck, younger ones, too; the guy looked young for his age *and* did have more money than God). The tall redhead was where both Claire and Josh had gotten their coloring; Josh himself was a younger version of Richard, with his mother’s wavy hair. The nautical blue and beige, though, had him looking like a particularly wealthy sea captain. It was Nora, however, that had Bender internally groaning. 

Nora Thompson-Standish was the quintessential WASP. Towering and tanned in the tanning bed she’d had installed at home a few years previous, she was a former Miss Illinois ’65 and paraded her erstwhile title proudly. Her old crown was on display in the museum-like confines of Casa Standish, ensconced inside a plastic cube on a pink cushion like it was a fucking Ming vase. Today, she wore her mass of blonde hair tied back in one of those beehive up-dos that looked complicated as hell to pull off and a fuchsia suit with a ridiculously short skirt. 

Guys Bender’s age gawked at her all the time; they did so even now, very obviously ogling her stems in that piece of pink Velcro generously deemed an article of clothing. She seemed to appreciate the attention, particularly from younger dudes. A cougar, as Ty had once called her. 

'Cougar' was apt. The bitch had claws that could render him to ribbons. 

Upon reaching the table, Richard hesitated for a second before pulling out his wife’s chair. Bender tried not to smirk whilst she gracefully sank into it. 

When Nora’s cold silver eyes met his own, the compulsion vanished. Jesus Christ, he could write a monster movie about Nora and make millions. 

'Like all those movies from the 30s. "Mummy", "Frankenstein", "Dracula", "Nora Standish".' 

He gulped. Bender loathed to admit that he was fucking terrified of that woman. And she knew it, too.

Under the table, Claire reached for his hand and squeezed. He didn’t feel as much the urge to blow his guts. 

Richard Standish rounded the table to kiss his daughter’s cheek in greeting and shake Bender’s hand. He hoped his sweaty palms weren’t obvious. 

“Sweetheart,” he addressed Claire after sitting down. “You look well. Indeed, quite rested. Glowing, almost.”

Bender almost choked on the ice water he was sipping. 

Claire discreetly smacked his back and beamed phonily at her father. “Thank you, Daddy. It’s, um, this new luminizer. Did you get here all right?”

Richard waved her off. “Oh, fine—“ 

But Nora, naturally, simply could *not* agree with her husband. About anything. “Hardly. I swear, the drivers in this town are so slow. And all these student drivers. I wish there were designated tracks in which to practice.”

“Um, Mother, there are.” 

Bender harkened back to the Drivers’ Ed course he’d taken at Shermer. All those fucking orange cones. He’d nearly failed because he kept knocking those down trying to parallel park. He hated parallel parking. 

“Oh. Well.” Nora gestured with one manicured hand. “They need to stay there, is all I’m saying.” 

There was a beat of awkward silence, then Richard asked him about his job—how it was going, what he was working on, if he was making enough to support his daughter already. Okay, that last one Claire’s old man hadn’t asked but the sentiment was there. Bender mumbled his replies, that it was all going fine, he was building a house in Lake Forest with the rest of his crew. He hated discussing his job with the Standishes, especially with Nora staring balefully at him as she was. Though Bender was proud of his job and how quickly he was climbing up the ladder there, it was still nada in comparison to the conglomerate Richard Standish operated. Hell, a few conglomerates, probably. A fucking monopoly. For all he knew, ol’ Rich had mafia connections. 

Again, Claire squeezed his hand under the table. She knew he disliked speaking to her parents about what he did for a living. Mostly because it ended with him feeling like he had something to be ashamed of for *not* being some burgeoning capitalist yuppie like Sporto. 

“And how long during the day do you work, exactly, Johnathon?” Bitchy McSteeltits drawled, sipping her damn red wine while regarding him with those cold, mascara-coated eyes over the rim. 

Nora always referred to him by his full name. Never mind that he hadn’t gone by “Johnathon” since he was a kid. Even his ma gave up when he was ten and started calling him John. Or Johnny, which he hated. 

Bender shifted in his seat. “I work from 9 to 5, generally.”

He’d actually been coming home at fuck you o’clock working on that damn house in Lake Forest. As Ol’ Low-and-Grout could attest to. But he certainly was not going to volunteer this information. God alone knew how Succubus Standish would twist that nugget into a pretzel of bullshit.

The harridan was forever trying to get Claire to drop him on his ass. She’d stop at nothing. 

Nora quirked one overly plucked eyebrow. “9 to 5? I thought that was just a Dolly Parton movie.”

Figured. Since she’d never worked a day in her life. 

Claire cleared her throat. “Mother, that’s the usual workday for a lot of people.”

“Is it?” Another sip of that wine, as red as blood. 

'Probably is. She’s either a vampire or sacrifices virgins to stay young.'

Good thing Cherry was no longer a cherry anymore. He’d be worried.

Thank fuck, Josh arrived before either of the Standishes could drill him further. Claire’s brother, like her, took after their father physically—red hair, pale skin, dark eyes—but he was definitely more laid back than the easily stressed Rich. Richard Standish avoided taking shit out on his kids—how foreign to Bender—but he’d witnessed the guy yelling at his employees before; it was petrifying. Josh, on the other hand, rarely raised his voice to anyone. He was gregarious and easy to joke. Bender liked him best out of all the Standishes (aside from Claire, of course). Next was Rich. Nora came after every other member of Claire’s extended family. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, pulling out a chair. “I was with Mikkel and lost track of time.”

Mikkel was Josh’s boyfriend, a former international student from Berlin. 

Nora closed her eyes in an overlong blink. She did not approve of any reminder that her son’s sexual orientation was not socially acceptable. Richard just shifted in his chair.

Josh was aware that his ma loathed any talk of Mikkel or her son’s “lifestyle”, as she called it, so he enjoyed injecting just that topic into idle conversation. Another reason why Bender liked him. 

Joshua Standish leaned over to hug his sister, slapped Bender on the arm, and picked up a leather-bound menu. “So. What are we having?” 

The waiter came. They ordered Beluga caviar on blinis for an appertif. When it arrived, he tried not to vomit. He couldn’t believe richies actually ate fucking fish eggs. 

Everything seemed totally normal—at least, normal in Richieworld. Richard and the Succubus were chomping on—shudder—*fish eggs* while Rich waxed poetic about one of his young employees, Alec, some douchey recent Georgetown graduate who sounded like a real yuppie piece of work. Josh was engaging Claire about his recent date with Mikkel at the symphony. Large ceramic bowls of this chilled white soup called Vichyssoise were ladled out (he cautiously sipped at one spoonful, gagged, and pushed it away from his place setting; Claire pursed her lips to keep from laughing). Nora addressed Claire as “Darling” and passive-aggressively criticized her choice of outfit, a black dress under a pink blazer—“Darling, don’t you think that blazer is a little too casual for La Madeleine? Not that you don’t look lovely in it!”—then glared icicles at him and his long hair and pushed up jacket sleeves. What? It was hot in here! And Bender wasn’t going to cut his hair for no one, especially not elitist bitchholes like Nora Standish. Rich commented that he thought she looked perfectly presentable and then he and his wife squabbled about her skirt and his “In the Navy” homage. The waiter set down their entrées: cheese—'excuse me, *fromage*, oh hon hon hon—soufflé for Claire, foie gras for Josh, salmon terrine for Rich, and duck l’orange for the Succubus. Bender ordered something called coq au vin, which Claire claimed was chicken and he pronounced “cock aw vine”. 

For the thousandth time, Nora stared at him like he was dog shit beneath her pricey shoes. 

Bender hated this. So much. 

As Nora was prattling on about some lady in her inner circle she didn’t particularly like, Claire met his gaze. He knew the time to confess was coming, and he wanted to both puke and run away. Instead, he palmed his wine goblet and knocked back the alcohol.

This was not going to be a fun conversation.

“…and all she does is talk, talk, talk about her family vacations. They’re planning a trip to Paris because her husband’s brother lives there; he married a Frenchwoman, you know. She has seven children. She should be more concerned about *them*.” 

Claire tried to interrupt, but Nora kept blah-blah-blahing.

“I swear, that Kate McCallister annoys me to no end. If she would just—“

Richard sighed. “So why do you continue to associate with her if you don’t enjoy her company, Nora?”

Succubus Standish looked flabbergasted. “I can’t just *break* with her, Richard. She’s the founder of the Clean Up Chicago committee. I’d be the subject of gossip. All the tongues would be wagging at Eastlake.”

Claire’s second attempt. “Daddy, Mother—“

“I just don’t understand why you insist on keeping people in your inner circle when you obviously can’t stand them,” Rich continued, entirely drowning out his daughter. 

Bender leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. 

“Oh, Richard, you are so naïve. Haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?” The Succubus.

Rich: “Yes, but these vapid women—“

Claire: “Um, guys?”

Josh was idly smearing butter over a slice of pumpernickel bread. 

“They’re not vapid.” A pause. “Well, yes, they are, but Kate isn’t. She’s just aggravating. I don’t care if your husband—“ Nora.

“It just seems silly to me. And, for that matter, I know Peter McCallister. He’s a good fellow. A bit harried, but—“ 

“Naturally, you would take up their mantle, Richard.” 

Claire again: “Mom? Dad? Hello?”

Josh groaned under his breath. “We can’t even have frigging dinner out without those two going at it.” 

Still staring at the ceiling, Bender tried to squash the lyrics of “Love is A Battlefield” flying through is brain. Fucking song had been stuck in his head for a week. 

“I’m not taking up any mantle, Nora. I’m simply saying very plainly—“ 

“Would it kill you to come to my defense for once?” 

“Damnit, Nora! That’s not what I—“ 

“If you would just—“

“I’M PREGNANT!”

The arguing stopped. The complaining stopped. Josh let the buttered bread slip from his fingers and land on his plate with a soft thud. Nora and Richard turned to gawk at the both of them, wearing matching expressions of shock. 

Claire’s smile was sheepish as she rubbed his arm. Bender wanted to crawl into a pit and rot. “We’re, um, having a baby. Isn’t that great?” 

By her tone, she knew that her parents would not think it was *great*. 

For a brief instance, the only sound was the echo of soft chatter from the other restaurant patrons. 

Then, Nora exploded. “Oh, no you’re not, young lady!”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Yes, I am, Mother. I’ve already seen Dr. Devers and had an ultrasound.” 

Josh’s eyes were bulging out of his head. “God damn.” Facing him, “You knocked up my sister?” 

Bender reached up to rub the back of his neck, wishing for a hole to open up in the earth and swallow him. “Well, I—“ 

“There’s no way any daughter of mine will have a child out of wedlock. Especially with that—“ 

Rich rested a hand on his wife’s arm before she could turn into a bat and suck his blood. “Now, Nora—“ 

“Don’t you ‘Now, Nora’ me! She is getting an abortion!” 

Claire’s jaw hung open. “I am not! You cannot force me to get an abortion, Mother.”

Nora pointed one manicured claw at her daughter, bending over the table. “We are going down to the nearest Planned Parenthood—“ 

Richard rose from his seat, bracing his hands atop the table. “Nora, stop this!” 

The Succubus spun on her expensive heel to gawp at her husband. “Your daughter is *pregnant*, Richard! How are you standing up for this? How do you *approve* of this?!”

Rich sighed and dug his fingers in his red hair. “I know she is and I do not. But screaming like a banshee isn’t going to solve anything.”

Nora tilted her nose upward. “That’s right. Planned Parenthood will.” 

“You don’t even believe in abortion, Nora.”

“For our daughter getting pregnant out of wedlock by a scoundrel, I do!” 

Scoundrel. That’s a new one. In the past, Succubus Standish had referred to him as a scumbag, a piece of trash, a gutter rat, a criminal, a low-class maggot, a dirt-poor stain, and a bottom of the barrel bastard, but this was her first usage of scoundrel. Bender kind of liked it. It made him feel like a Victorian-era pirate or rake. 

“EXCUSE ME!” 

As one, the table, plus most of the restaurant, turned to stare at Claire. His girlfriend was on her feet, breathing harshly, skin mottled with what appeared to be anger, not embarrassment. She had eyes only for her parents, eyes as cold as icicles and as sharp as knives. 

Kinda turned Bender on. He idly considered that Satan had his eye on him like Richard Ramirez. 

“Thank you.” Claire’s own manicured nails raked through her ginger hair. “The fact is I am pregnant. Yes, I am keeping it. No, no one can convince me otherwise. Or force my hand. And that includes *you*, Mother. So just…shut up!”

Nora Standish looked homicidal. “Claire Chastity Demetria Standish, don’t you talk to your mother like that!”

Bender almost choked on the wine. “Chastity Demetria?!” And burst out laughing.

How had he not known what Claire’s middle name was all this time? *Were*. Middle names *were*. 

Claire stared darkly at him then went back to exchanging barbs with the Succubus.

Josh was also chuckling. Her brother, at least, did not appear to want to eviscerate him. “I know. Claire got the decent first name and I got the second.”

Bender turned in his seat to face him. “And what’s your other middle name? Come on, I know you have one.”

Now, the guy wasn’t so amused. “It’s…Adalbert.” 

Again, Bender couldn’t contain his mirth. “Adalbert!”

Josh crossed his arms. “Oh yeah? What’s yours, burnout?” 

Bender, too, was no longer amused. “Edmund,” he muttered like he’d sucked on a lemon.

Josh leaned in closer. “What was that?”

“Edmund!”

“Your name is Johnathon Edmund? Jesus.” The chuckling proceeded to full-on belly laughter.

He scowled, arms crossed. “Look, my ma’s an anglophile, all right? She woke me up at four AM a few years ago to watch the royal wedding with her.” 

Josh, however, wasn’t done. “Would you like some tea and crumpets?”

“Fuck you.”

Bender tuned back into the argument between his girlfriend and her mother, Josh still laughing until tears were dripping down his face. 

Nora Standish looked as though she was about to explode like Mount St. Helen’s. 

'Mount St. Standish.'

Claire had one finger extended toward the Succubus. “Now, you can support me or not, but it’s my choice. And if you don’t like it, well, like, piss off. Come on, John. We’re leaving.”

Bender didn’t have to be told twice. He shot out of that chair, gave the stunned Standishes an Airborne Ranger-ready salute, and followed Claire through the dining room. 

Well. Now he was really turned on.  
**  
Brian hated places like this. 

La Madeleine, a snooty restaurant that catered to the upper-upper class. The place was like a Club 33. Reservations were usually booked months in advance, but they happily made exceptions for “certain people”. Being merely wealthy was not enough. One needed to be fabulously, filthily, fantastically rich. A Masters of the Universe type. It was the kind of establishment that made a habit of kicking “unsuitables” to the curb. And they could, because La Madeleine was the Spago of suburban Chicago. Everyone wanted in. 

Not Brian, however. He’d have been perfectly satisfied with a Big Mac and fries. 

But that wasn’t how the Takaharis did things. 

He’d agreed to come out tonight to this elitist paradise 1) for Jackie and 2) because her father would actually be joining them. So, with some baseball stats in his pocket and the same suit he’d worn to Andy and Allison’s engagement party, here he was, idly prodding the escargot Mr. Takahari had ordered for everyone with his fork. 

It was a mental block. He couldn’t get around the idea of eating…snails.

But his girlfriend’s father was staring hard at him over a forkful of escargot, as if judging his palate or whatever, so he swallowed past his distaste, pierced a snail, and popped it in his mouth. 

It was chewy. Like calamari only…not.

To his right, Mrs. Takahari was smiling pleasantly at him. Jackie, to his left, kept glancing between him and her father. Mr. Takahari had barely said a word all evening, other than the occasional grunt. 

Mrs. Takahari cleared her throat and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “So, y’all are graduating next week! Brian, Jackie tells me that you got in the top ten percent of your class, congratulations!”

Brian blushed. President Stewart, the dean of all students, had called him into his office to tell him personally that he’d breached the top fifty students in the Class of ’89. It was a feat that had taken much dedication and commitment on his part, not to mention having to sacrifice quite a few weekends with his friends and, later, his girlfriend to stay inside and study. It’d evidently paid off, at least according to his parents, who were overjoyed. Brian wasn’t so sure if that addendum to his permanent record had been entirely worth missing birthdays and outings over. 

Next Thursday afternoon was their official graduation from Northwestern. U of C’s was scheduled for the following evening. The School at the Art Institute of Chicago had already conducted theirs, but Allison didn’t go, preferring instead to receive her diploma in the mail. As she said, sitting in the hot sun for two hours while the school president waxed poetic on himself and a bunch of people she didn’t know nor really care to know was not her idea of a good time. 

“Thank you, Mrs.—Sylvia.” Brian still hadn’t gotten the hang of calling an adult by her given name. “I—it was just, um—“

Jackie interrupted by beaming and squeezing his arm. “Brian’s graduating summa cum laude.” 

Mrs. Takahari tilted her head and gasped. “Oh, that’s impressive! Isn’t that impressive, Hideo?” 

Jackie’s father muttered something beneath his breath then said, addressing his daughter, “I want to know why *you* aren’t summa cum laude, Jacqueline.” 

Jackie’s skin flushed the color of her rose lipstick. “I’m magna cum laude, Daddy.”

Sylvia rolled her green eyes heavenward. “Honestly, Hideo! Why can’t you just be proud of her?” 

“I’m proud,” Mr. Takahari argued, hands palm-out. “I am just wondering.”

His wife glared disbelievingly at him while the man’s gaze landed pointedly on Brian. He slinked a bit in his chair. 

When, out of nowhere, someone who sounded a lot like Bender called to him to get his attention, the glare from Mr. Takahari deepened. Jackie’s father shot a look at her mother as if to say 'And these are the kids our daughter is going around with.'

After the waitress came around to pick up their plates, Brian subtly dug inside the pocket of his trousers and, holding the list of stats under the table, began to study it for the nth time. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself and utter the wrong thing to the man whose approval he was trying to engage.

“So, um, M—Mr. Takahari—“ 

And then, totally interrupting them, a beeping sound accompanied by mortifying vibrating erupted from the pocket of Brian’s trousers. His eyes went wide. Mr. Takahari’s own eyes narrowed; in case he did not know that the man had been spending the whole of dinner glaring at him as a person glares at a fly interrupting their meal, he did now, absolutely. Beside him, his girlfriend snorted into a cotton napkin.

Grinning bashfully, he muttered an apology and fished out the little black pager in his pocket. It was a recent addition, an early graduation gift from his mother. He’d thanked her, but he definitely would’ve appreciated it more if his parents didn’t have the exact same ones with his number already programmed into its memory. “We can always be in contact now!” she’d trilled, holding aloft her own device. At the time, Brian had tried very hard not to cringe. 

Mercedes Johnson had gotten the idea from her husband, who had an identical one for work. 

It was only the low-grade guilt an overprotective mother could effortlessly instill in her child that made him take the thing with him tonight. He’d almost walked out without it but went back to retrieve the device when he considered that his mother might have a heart attack or something and need to reach him. 

He was deeply regretting that decision now. Mercedes’ number flashed on the screen in screaming green. He was going to ignore it, he really was, but there was that low-grade guilt again. 

'What if she *is* having a heart attack?'

“Um,” he mumbled, turning it off and placing it back in his pocket. “E—excuse me, it’s my mother. I need to…” He gestured toward the maître d' stand, where there was a phone. 

Sylvia smiled. “Of course, darlin’. It’s nice that you’re so considerate of your mother.” 

Her husband merely grunted. 

Brian bid his apologies again then jumped out of the chair and practically sprinted for the phone. At this point, he’d whipped himself into a frenzy, convinced that something horrible had happened. 

When both Mercedes and Ralph Johnson appeared in the lobby, Brian’s worry vanished. It was replaced with annoyance. 

“Oh, *there* you are, Brian,” Mrs. Johnson said. Her dark blonde eyebrows were formed into a little V. “This man here will not let us pass.” 

The skinny maître d' with the pencil line mustache huffed. “That is because you do not have a reservation, Madame. I cannot let you through without one.” 

In his mind, Brian was slapping his forehead in aggravation. He regarded the poor maître d', who’d been heckled by his mother for who knew how long. “Sorry. They’re, um, with me. I didn’t know if they were coming tonight.”

He hadn’t known at all. 

The maître d’s eyes narrowed. He reached into the cubby behind the stand and produced two more menus.

When a few paces away from the lobby, Brian turned on his parents. “What are you guys doing here? Where’s Mary?”

His mom waved off the concern. “She’s staying over a friend’s house. Since your father and I were alone all evening with nothing to do, we decided to come down here and surprise you!”

Ralph cleared his throat, speaking for the first time. His normally expressionless face was one of apology. “Your mother decided for both of us.” 

Of course she did. Mercedes Johnson redefined the word 'overprotective'. She tended to hover over her children like a helicopter—Brian most especially, no matter that he would be twenty-two this year. Brian was not surprised. At twelve, his sister, Mary, was already becoming quite the social butterfly. An extrovert by nature, she had no issue approaching strangers and striking up a conversation. Brian had always been more subdued, more introverted. Shy. Socially anxious. Thus, Mercedes saw him as someone in need of protecting. 

It also didn’t help that he was a straight A student while Mary didn’t bother nearly as much with academics. She was more concerned with extracurricular activities and meeting boys. Both of his parents watched his grades very closely, though not as much as they had back in Shermer. 

Not living with them was finally giving him room to breathe. 

“We wanted to meet your girlfriend’s parents, finally!” Mrs. Johnson added with a bright smile. “You said they were going to be here tonight, yes?”

Brian bit back a groan. He was regretting idly mentioning where he’d be tonight to his mother when she called earlier. Moreso, though he and Jackie had been together for a year and a half now, he’d been putting off their two families meeting. At the very least, Brian wanted to gain Mr. Takahari’s approval first before unleashing his parents on him. 

So much for that. 

Escorting Mercedes and Ralph to the table, he reluctantly introduced the two sets of parents. “Mom, Dad, the Takaharis. Mr. and Mrs. Takahari, my parents, Mercedes and Ralph Johnson. You both know Jackie already. Um, they surprised me.” This last was directed toward Jackie’s parents. 

Mr. Takahari’s lips pursed. But Sylvia’s eyes were shining, her expression welcoming. “Please pull up chairs! It’s lovely to meet ya both.”

Mercedes Johnson grabbed an empty chair from the occupied neighboring table without asking. Ralph winced and repeated her actions with an empty one. 

“Thank you for having us. I can’t believe we haven’t met until now!” Mrs. Johnson threw a meaningful look at her son, who only ducked down in his seat. Again. 

Sylvia gestured to Brian across from her. “We were just talkin’ about Brian graduating summa cum laude.” 

“And my daughter not,” Mr. Takahari grumbled beneath his breath, though Brian heard it. Judging by the pink splotches that materialized in Jackie’s cheeks, so did she. 

Mercedes remained oblivious, however. Smiling widely, she wrapped an arm around Brian’s shoulders. “Yes, we’re so proud of Brian!” She gazed at her son. “Oh, I know all those extra hours studying and redoing homework was challenging, but they certainly paid off!”

'Yes, if by “paid off” you mean “Only *almost* shot myself with a flare gun to avoid telling you that I got an F in shop”.' 

And then there was the time his mother tried to ground him when he was twenty and living apart from her for getting less than an A- on a test. Or when his father called him up at midnight two days before midterms for not pulling an all-nighter. Knowing that the last time he’d done that, his hair started falling out the next day. 

“Well, wait until they go to Baltimore! I’m so excited, they’ll take the town by storm!”

Brian’s blood suddenly turned to ice in his veins. He probably should’ve mentioned that he hadn’t told his parents about Johns Hopkins yet. But he hadn’t thought his and Jackie’s parents would meet yet (or ever, if he’d had his way)! 

Mercedes’ eyes narrowed. She turned to regard Brian, the amity totally gone from her face. “Baltimore? What’s this, Brian?”

Sylvia looked stricken and uncomfortable. “Oh, lord. Was I not supposed to say anything about that?” 

Brian forced a smile. “I—it’s okay, S—Sylvia. Um, Mom, Jackie and I applied to Johns Hopkins. In, um, Baltimore.” 

“Oh. How…nice!” She obviously did not think it was nice. Mercedes was gripping her fork so hard, Brian was surprised her hand wasn’t bleeding. “But you haven’t gotten in yet?”

“Err, no, not yet. Still waiting.” Brian played with his fingers. 

Mrs. Takahari beamed beautifully, straight teeth between two red lips. “Oh, they will! My Jackie’s graduatin’ magna cum laude. And Brian is summa cum laude. He’s one of the best students in the Class of ’89! They’d be stupid not to take ‘em.” Sylvia uttered this as fact, complete with a nod. 

Across from him, Mr. Takahari looked…oddly intrigued. 

Brian’s mother was still trying for supportive curiosity—or feigning it, anyway. Through clenched teeth, she asked, “What’s wrong with Northwestern’s med school, though?”

Brian shrugged. “Nothing. It’s a great medical school.”

Mercedes tilted her head, still speaking through clenched teeth. On her other side, Ralph was squeezing her arm, trying to calm her down. “So why not apply there?”

He shifted under his mother’s intense glare, masked in company as one of simple curiosity. Brian swallowed. “Well, Mom, as great as Feinberg is—and it is great—Johns Hopkins is…Johns Hopkins.”

“It ranks as the best med school in the country, Mrs. Johnson,” Jackie added, her own smile calming and uncertain. “We just want to see if we get in.”

“Which they will,” Sylvia stated plainly. 

Mercedes unlocked her jaw to retort again, but out of the blue, who else but Claire Standish’s angry voice interrupted. Brian, in addition to much of the entire restaurant, craned around to gawk as she announced her pregnancy to her shocked parents. 

Nora Standish, who Bender had accurately described as “Satan in heels”, began bickering with her husband about Claire’s pregnancy and getting her an abortion. If he recollected correctly, Nora didn’t even *believe* in abortion. 

“…screaming like a banshee isn’t going to solve anything,” Richard Standish said to his outraged Amazonian wife. 

Nora wasn’t having it. “Right. Planned Parenthood will.” 

Mercedes was watching the display with widened eyes. She shook her head, decrying Mr. and Mrs. Standish’s antics. “My word! They’re arguing about their daughter’s pregnancy in *public*. In the middle of a nice restaurant. Don’t they have any shame?” 

In Nora’s case, no. No, she did not. 

“EXCUSE ME!” Claire cried after her mother called Bender a scoundrel. From Brian’s vantage, his friend did not look at all offended. “The fact is I am pregnant. Yes, I am keeping it. No, no one can convince me otherwise. Or force my hand. And that includes *you*, Mother. So just…shut up!”

Jackie grinned. “Right on, Claire.”

Nora was sputtering in her ire, but Claire wasn’t done. “Now, you can support me or not, but it’s my choice. And if you don’t like it, well, like, piss off.” 

Then, she and Bender stormed out of the restaurant—well, she more so; he was casually following her lead. 'I guess John’s decided to engage with Nora as little as possible.' 

Couldn’t blame him. 

There was a moment of awkward silence permeating La Madeleine. Then, after a minute or so, everyone cautiously went back to eating and talking amongst themselves. 

Brian turned in his seat. Regarded his mother, thinly hiding her anger. Her eyes clearly conveyed that this wouldn’t be the end of the Baltimore move conversation. 

Clearing his throat, Brian stared across the table at Mr. Takahari. “So, um, how about those Cubs?”  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part: Richard tries to make peace
> 
> Note 1: I used Goldie Hawn as the "Played By" for Nora. It's funny cus she's a "WASPY McWASP", as Seth Cohen says, and Goldie herself is my fellow Jew. And Nora is awful while Goldie is said to be a sweetheart.
> 
> Note 2: "St. Elmo's Fire" shoutout! Come on, I could not NOT write one. Or two. "Home Alone" shoutout, too. Two era references in one chapter, obvs I am a pop culture junkie.
> 
> Note 3: Ah, beepers. Truly a relic from the mid-90s. But one doctors still use. My uncle used to beep my dad just "8UTTZ"
> 
> Note 4: Something tells me Mrs. Johnson is something of a Karen. Yanno, always demanding to see the manager. Writing scathing reviews of restaurants. Sadly for her, Yelp did not exist back then so she probably has to submit them to Readers' Digest. In fact, thinking about it, maybe I should've called her Karen.
> 
> Bee


	12. Chapter 11: Papa Don't Preach

Chapter 11: Papa Don't Preach

“This is perfect!”

Allison was in heaven. Her own version of heaven, anyway. And her perfect slice of paradise had come in the last place she would’ve expected—a cathedral. 

Andy had come home a few days ago (though they lived in separate apartments, her fiancé was at her place off Millennium Park more than he was his own; he considered it “home”) teasing a surprise in store for her. One that he would show to her that coming Saturday. She’d spent the next three days trying to guess. A puppy? A friend for Charlotte, her pet tarantula? Concert tickets? All of her guesses were nixed by him, and she sat on pins and needles awaiting Saturday. 

The wait, and the blindfolded twenty minute trip in the minivan, had been worth it. St. Francis’ was absolutely perfect. 

Built of stone, the gorgeously gloomy cathedral peaked at a lofty ten stories. Its outer façade was decorated with just those creepy gargoyle statues she had envisioned in her mind, looming over the tall, ovular door with bared fangs, pointed claws, and beady, evil eyes. The surrounding area, too, lent the church an air of horror movie. Though it was June and the nearby flora was flourishing, all of the surrounding trees were creaky and dead, leafless. The lawn was yellowing in spots. The cathedral itself was located in a secluded area; the nearest neighbor was over a half mile away. 

Inside, too, was just as gloriously creepy. Long, darkened, narrow corridors that branched off to rooms with furniture clothed in white drop cloths. Weird, dark paintings of twisty forests and screaming faces, and cold stone floors. Soaring stained-glass windows depicting some of the most brutal scenes out of the Bible: Satan covering Job with red, puckering pustules, a mother boiling her son and eating him in Kings, God raining fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gomorrah in Genesis. The ceilings were so high, she could barely see the top, supported with exposed dark wood beams and creaky chandeliers. 

Yet, delightedly, the chapel was the best part. The aisle was also comprised of wonky masonry and was nearly one-hundred feet long. Allison was already picturing a red velvet aisle runner, embossed with gold if she could find it, to lay down the passage. On either side were beautiful mahogany pews, obviously aged but recently polished to a high shine. Towering stained-glass windows, these portraying different Catholic saints, flanked the lofty angled double doors at the entrance of the chapel. A cherry wood organ with yellowed keys stood off to the upper left corner of the space, which she would have to get tuned. Attached to the stone walls were more statues, evil demons and crumbling gargoyles and the Devil-as-the-serpent wrapped around a nude Eve about to take that fateful bite of apple and thus, according to the Bible, dooming humanity. 

The spooky ambiance was heightened by the dim, gray lighting and wrought iron candelabras. It was like a scene out of a short story by Edgar Allan Poe. 

Allison was in love. She was already picturing the day in her mind’s eye—her bridesmaids on one side of the aisle brandishing dark crimson nosegays and Andy’s groomsmen on the other, a piano player seated at the organ pounding out…not “Here Comes the Bride” but maybe Camille Saint-Saëns’ “Danse Macabre” or the Twilight Zone theme, Allison herself slinking down the aisle in a fabulously dreary gown—one she hadn’t decided on yet but had no doubt Claire would highly disapprove of. 

She squealed in glee and jumped up and down when Andy asked her if this was what she had in mind. 

He laughed, the sound bouncing off the cavernous walls of the chapel. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Ally threw her arms around him. She could always count on Andy to know her inside and out. Her very soul was forever entwined with his. 

“There’s one caveat,” Stubbie, their guide and de-facto wedding planner, warned. “I can only book this place for some time in November, December, or January. It’s closed to the public until September, and then it’s used as a haunted house during Halloween season. It closes again in February after the holiday season is over.” 

Allison’s brow furrowed. Wasn’t that around the time Claire was due? She’d have to ask her. The last thing she wanted to do was make her friend uncomfortable. 

Unnecessarily uncomfortable, anyway. Carrying around a kid in your womb didn’t exactly look like a day at the spa. And with that kid being a Bender, doubtless, it was going to rain hell on Claire’s body. 

Allison bit her lip. “I’ll have to talk to Claire.”

Andy furrowed his brow. He was so cute when he was puzzled. “Why?”

“That’s around the time Baby Bender is due to make its grand entrance into the world.” 

'And promptly flip it off.' 

“Oh, that’s right,” Andy said with a frown. “Damn, I didn’t think about that. I’m a bad friend.”

Allison patted his shoulder. 

“Well, let me know as soon as possible, guys,” Stubbie interjected. “This place gets booked up real quick around the holidays. For parties and weddings and stuff. There was a bar mitzvah here last year.” 

Ally enjoyed the idea of the Jewish rite of passage into manhood being conducted inside a Catholic church. 

She gazed around herself one more time. This really was the perfect venue, just what she’d had in mind. It was spooky and secluded but still technically a holy place to satisfy Carol. She definitely didn’t want to pass up the chance. “I’ll call her later.”  
***  
As soon as they entered their apartment, Claire hurled her three-hundred-dollar Louis Vuitton shoulder bag on the floor and let loose a giant scream of frustration. 

In the foyer, John stood wearing an expression of half entertainment and half startled bewilderment. Claire sighed and padded into the living room to retrieve her purse.

“Sorry,” she muttered, leafing through her wallet to ascertain her identification hadn’t fallen out in her moment of unbridled rage. “I don’t mean to be a spaz.”

With one eye on her, John hesitantly entered the kitchen. She heard the refrigerator door being pulled open, a muffled curse, and a thud as it was shut again. “That wasn’t another effect, was it? Like, are you going to be randomly throwing shit while screaming for the next five months? Because if so, I need to order me some chainmail or something.” 

Claire chuckled in spite of herself, picturing her boyfriend dressed up like a character out of 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail'. “No, John. I promise not to spontaneously throw any more purses in the future.” 

“Or anything else, please. I like my head.” He walked out of the kitchen, drinking from a can of Coke. 

Claire’s gaze automatically darted to the spot on the wall between the kitchen and the living room where she’d thrown a phonebook at his head a few years ago during an argument about one of his former Wallet Girls. He’d ducked, and it hit the wall, leaving a hole.

'Yeah, not one of my finer moments.' 

Lowering herself onto the settee she’d spent so much for, Claire pushed back her hair with a hand still shaking with vexation. “My mother makes me crazy.”

John sighed, wiped his lips on the sleeve of his suit (uncaring that it was actually Andy's suit, apparently), and came to sit down beside her. He winced when his back hit the uncomfortable thing. “Claire, I hate to tell you this, but your mom makes everyone crazy.”

She bobbed her head from side to side, agreeing. Claire was perfectly aware that Nora Standish wasn’t exactly ever going to win Person of the Year. “True. But, God, the audacity of her! Ordering me to get an abortion. She doesn’t even believe in abortion!” 

“You heard her,” John said, adopting that same condescending, faux sympathetic tone he broke out when he was being a particular asshole. “For her daughter knocked up out of wedlock by a scoundrel, she does.”

Claire rolled her eyes and squeezed his knee. “You’re not a scoundrel. You’re just an ass.” 

John laughed and made braying sounds. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

Claire’s gaze ticked to the door in puzzlement. Odd. They usually received a phone call from downstairs before someone was allowed to pay them a visit. It was building policy. John, his expression echoing her confusion, rose and strode to the door in the front foyer. First, he glanced out the peephole, then unlocked the chain and opened the door. 

Her father’s cultured, but diffident, timbre surprised her. Though she didn’t know why, really. Of course her father would want to talk to her after dropping that bombshell. “Er, hello, John. Is my daughter here?”

Ticking her gaze up, she watched as John wordlessly stepped aside to let Richard Standish into the apartment, the one he was paying for. Her boyfriend busied himself in the adjacent kitchen, though he’d just come from there, as her dad approached her. Sometimes, he could be subtle. It wasn’t a regular occurrence, but sometimes. 

Claire’s father was still dressed in the navy sweater and khaki trousers he’d been wearing at La Madeleine, which meant he likely hadn’t gone home from the restaurant. She idly wondered if he had dropped Nora off at the house before driving into the city or if he had just told her to take the car home and he’d get a cab. If she had to hazard a guess, it was likely the latter. 

She observed warily whilst he dragged one of the breakfast bar stools before her and slowly sank down on top of it. The absolute last thing she wanted tonight after that shitshow of a dinner was to argue with her dad, but she would if he echoed any of her mother’s sentiments. 

Richard was silent for a moment. Claire quietly studied him, the moneyed, powerful man who had raised her. He didn’t seem so powerful or larger than life now. Indeed, her father looked tired, lethargic. Spread thin. He hadn’t seemed so at La Madeleine, but she hadn’t really been paying close attention; she’d been preoccupied with her own situation and how to break the news to her parents. Claire speculated whether he was having difficulties or frustrations at his company (companies, more than one; she couldn’t remember how many at this point) or if his appearance tonight was simply due to her confession and, doubtless, Nora’s badgering of him after she and John left. Probably a bit of both. It wasn’t easy running a monopoly. 

To most citizens of the greater Chicago area, Richard Standish was this grandiose, untouchable idol who loomed large over the city in his gigantic office at the top of a gigantic skyscraper in a metropolis bedecked with gigantic billboards depicting his smiling face. To Claire, he was just Daddy. 

And she didn’t want to disappoint him. But she also harbored this innate need to protect her unborn child at all costs. Even from its would-be family. 

John was noticeably lurking in the background. She could see him through the breakfast bar window, feigning busywork in the kitchen. She knew eavesdropping when she saw it; after all, she’d perfected the art. Claire tried not to laugh at his overtness. 

Her dad hesitantly reached over and took her hand. “So…honey, are you really pregnant?” 

Claire could tell that a part of him was hoping she’d snort and claim it was all a prank on her mother. “Yes, Daddy. See?”

Reaching for the abused purse, she dug through it until she found her Gucci wallet and pulled out the printout of her first second trimester sonogram. She was now at her fourteenth or fifteenth week, and the baby was about the size of an apple. Her eyelids were totally developed, though fused shut, and kidneys were fully functional.

Richard vacillated a beat, then slowly plucked the printout from her fingers. He met her eyes, then gazed at it. Claire watched as a wrinkle formed in the middle of her father’s forehead and his eyes went wide. Following another few seconds, they grew noticeably shiny. 

Claire smiled inwardly. 'At least he won’t disown me.' 

In the kitchen, John was pretending not to watch, his back straight, awaiting Richard’s reaction.

Her father lowered the picture. “My baby’s having a baby! I can’t believe it. I’m going to be a grandfather?” 

She’d never thought about it that way, which was weird. Her dad was going to be a grandfather, her brother was going to be an uncle, and her mother was going to be a grandmother, though Claire was entirely sure that Nora would wither the title. “You’re going to be a grandfather.” 

Surprising her a bit, Claire’s dad darted forward to envelop her in an embrace. Over his shoulder, she saw John’s shoulders relax. 

When he pulled away, he glanced down at the printout still clutched between his fingers. He gazed at it, then wiped a tear from his eyes. “This is…unbelievable. How far along are you, sweetheart?”

Her smile widened. “About fifteen weeks. I haven’t really started to show…yet.”

Though, she’d gained thirteen pounds already, much to Claire’s chagrin. Dr. Devers said she was even a little underweight for this stage, which meant that she needed to pack on the LBs. She was not looking forward to it. Claire could handle the puking, the headaches, and the increasing urges to use the bathroom, but the weight gain was what she dreaded most.

Richard gently placed the flat of his hand against her stomach. “Should be kicking soon. Your mother could feel you around fifteen weeks.” 

Claire beamed at the notion of finally feeling her child growing inside her for the first time. Dr. Devers told her that she should expect movement soon, as well. 

Sobering and biting her lip, she gazed at her father uncertainly. “So, you’re…okay with this?”

Richard sighed and ran a hand through his still thriving red hair. “I can’t say I approve, Claire, my daughter pregnant out of wedlock, but you’re an adult and you’ve obviously decided to go ahead and have this child. I’m sure you deliberated on it quite a bit, because you’re smart and you wouldn’t go into this lightly.”

Claire nodded. It had taken a week for her to ultimately decide. 

“Besides,” her dad continued. “It’s not as if you’re alone.” He glanced over his shoulder at John, who was still pretending he wasn’t tuned in to the conversation. 

Claire cracked her knuckles, an old nervous habit from childhood she delved into again whenever talk veered to her mother. “And…what about Mom?”

Richard’s lips flattened. She knew that expression. “Your mother…well, to be honest, Claire, she wants me to drag you kicking and screaming down to the nearest clinic.”  
The Princess rolled her eyes. “Typical. And how exactly does she expect you to force me to go through with it?”

Her father’s shrug was sheepish. “Who knows? Your mother is an island unto herself. In any event, I told her it’s your decision and now she won’t talk to me.”

Claire’s smirk was wry. “Not much of a change.”

“Precisely.”

With a grimace, her dad rose from the stool. Claire followed suit, and he reached out to hug her. Upon pulling back, he stretched out his spine. “Oh, I’m getting old. Congratulations again, honey.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” 

Rubbing her stomach idly, Claire watched as her father replaced the stool at the breakfast bar and peeked into the kitchen. “John, congratulations. And, I’ll repeat what I told you years ago—if you hurt my little girl, I’ll kill you.”

John smirked while shaking Richard’s hand. He’d already been through this spiel once before; he knew the drill. After years of dealing with the Standishes, he was fully aware that Richard was the far lesser of two evils and definitely not the parent he needed to worry about. 

The first time, though, he’d nearly shit himself. Claire grinned at the recollection. 

“Threat received, Rich.” 

Richard was also the only parent who didn’t care if her boyfriend called him by his first name. To her mother, she preferred he not address her at all. 

At the door, Claire’s father threw over his shoulder “Oh, and by the way, kid. You’re a bad eavesdropper” before departing. 

John’s smirk came crashing down. Claire burst out laughing. 

Grumbling beneath his breath, he swept out of the kitchen and crossed the living room to approach her. His hands went around her waist, fingers massaging her skin over the thin material of her blouse, and she wrapped her arms about his neck, smiling into his face. 

“I told you your old man wouldn’t disown you,” he said, moving one hand to rest on her slightly distended abdomen. Perhaps he was thinking about what her father had said, that soon she’d feel the baby moving. 

Claire grimaced. “True. But my mother just might.” 

John pursed his lips. “Princess, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your ma is a grade-a, high-falutin’ bi—“ 

The redhead smacked his arm, though she was laughing. “I know! Scoundrel.”

“I’m totally gonna get that made into a shirt. Or maybe a jaunty cap.” 

Claire cracked up once more and rested her head against his chest. 'At least the baby will always be entertained with us.'  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortish chapter, I'm comin' up on everything I have written so far. But since I'm writing every day or two it's like a race. Keep going so you don't run out of stuff to post.
> 
> Note 1: Where else would Allison want to get married but a spooky abandoned church?
> 
> Note 2: Like Bender and Claire haven't had some epic knock-down, drag-outs in the past.
> 
> Note 3: Since the Standishes use Claire to get back at each other, I imagine them as "good cop/bad cop". Mr. Standish is okay, but humors his caterwauling wife too often and has always given into his daughter's every whim. While Nora is just the Shrew who cannot be Tamed.


	13. Chapter 12: Lean On Me

Chapter 12: Lean On Me

Two months into Claire’s second trimester, and Bender was facing a crossroads. 

Or at least in a quandary. 

At work a few days previous, Big Bill had offered him a promotion, to that of Junior Foreman. Basically, Foreman Eric’s second-in-command. The advancement quite raised his salary, from 22K to 26K a year. He wouldn’t exactly be *rolling* in it, but it was more money than his old man had ever made working at the plant (or the bar or the shop, whichever place was taking pity on the drunk piece of shit at current), so that was something. There was a good chance he’d be able to secure an apartment for the two of them—and, eventually, Unnamed Standish-Bender Project, as Allison had taken to calling the kid growing in Claire’s womb, she was such a smartass—in a neighborhood that wasn’t entirely shit. 

Though, obviously, it would not be on North Columbus. Or, likely, in the Loop at all. He wasn’t certain how the Princess would handle moving to an apartment building that did not have its own gymnasium or indoor pool. 

That was *if* he took the promotion. On paper, the choice was obvious. Get more money, check. Stop living under Mr. Standish, check. Be a goddamn man, check. But there were drawbacks. For one, the Junior Foreman position required more hours, and he was already putting in absurd amounts of overtime as it was. He was apt to venture home at all hours of the frigging night working on that house in Lake Forest, it was insane. And Not So Sweet n’ Low had gotten into the habit of waiting up for him just so that she could eye him suspiciously and taunt him by glaring at him in her curlers and nightgown. That would’ve been enough to cripple any man. And this led to drawback two—he wanted to make more dough to support Claire and the kid, but if he took this job, would he ever actually *see* Claire and the kid? 

Or would he turn into one of those dads who spent so much time at the office, he missed his progeny’s childhood? 

Bender didn’t want *that*. He didn’t want to be fucking Ward Cleaver or anything, but he certainly didn’t wish to miss out on all his kid’s early milestones. Being stuck in the warehouse when he cut his first tooth. Or on site when he took his first steps. It’d gradually just become habit, him not being around, and soon, he’d be missing, like, Little League games or some shit. Karate tournaments. Then high school graduation. Then the kid’s fucking wedding. 

No. He definitely didn’t want to be that kind of dad.

He hadn’t really given much thought to what kind of dad he wanted to be. He wanted to be himself, just…with a kid? Which Bender figured, on the great Scale of Sitcom Dads, fell somewhere between Ward on the right and Al Bundy on the left. 

Whatever brand of parent he turned out to be, “barely present dad” was not on the checklist. 

The elevator dinged chirpily, and Bender stepped off. Tonight was the first time he’d come home at a sane hour since…well, it had been a while. It was near seven now, which was at least two or three hours before he usually ventured home, tired and dirty. The crew had finished early today. He was hoping to avoid another nightly run-in with Ol’ Low-and-Grout, but when he glimpsed the battle axe standing in her doorway at the end of the corridor, he knew he was shit out of luck. 

Night of the Lowing Dead had not yet affixed her curlers, but she was donning her trademark billowing beige nightgown and red slippers. Additionally, terrifyingly, tonight, her already unpleasant façade was smeared with this green crap Claire sometimes used. She claimed it “opened up the pores”, or whatever the fuck. She didn’t use the stuff as much anymore because he always made fun of her in it. 

Ol’ Low-and-Grout stepped out into the hall, frowning—Bender didn’t think the woman was capable of further expression—her arms crossed over her chest. Jesus, her boobs about touched the floor. He’d have to scrub his brain out to rid himself of that image. “What are you doing back so early for?”

Bender sighed as he shoved the THIS ONE key into the lock. “You know, Mrs. Lowing, you rag on me for being late. You rag on me for being early. I’m beginning to think you just don’t like me. I don’t know why. I’m such a nice boy. My mommy tells me so.”

No, she did not. In fact, he hadn’t spoken to his ma in a month and a half. And that was just a quick phone call to check up and, uh, let her know she was going to be a grandma. 

But Ol’ Low-and-Grout didn’t know that. 

The old lady scowled deeper, ignoring his words. “That nice young lady in there is with child.”

Bender snorted. *With child?* Who said 'with child' anymore? “No?! Once again, I am astonished by your Sherlock Holmesian powers of observation, Mrs. Lowing.” 

It was impossible not to recognize Claire’s pregnancy now; she was definitely showing. Her abdomen jutted out a good few inches, and she had gained approximately seventeen pounds so far, according to the doc. Claire being Claire, she was worried about the weight gain the most. She groaned every time Dr. Devers chided her that she needed to gain more weight. 

In a few months, he’d be a father. And that, in itself, was petrifying. 

They were already preparing for Untitled Standish-Bender Project’s arrival. Claire, of course, had begun shopping, lo they did not know the gender. She just kept buying lots of yellow and green shit for now, which she claimed was “unisex”. She had also purchased the world’s most pointlessly ornate crib. This cedar thing, painted white—it kind of looked like a dollhouse or a castle. The top of each corner was shaped to resemble turrets, with these blunt spires and little stained glass windows. It was fucking weird. Claire loved it.

Secretly, he was building her a rocking chair back at the warehouse. He was fashioning it out of a big hunk of rosewood and planned to include an ornamental headrest with cherries carved into it. Bender wanted to surprise her with it after the kid was born. 

While they were wrapped up in this whirlwind, Bender had to pause every now and then to reflect on the enormous change that was about to befall them. The grandiosity of the situation. They were going to have a *baby*. He was about to become a *dad*. He and Claire were going to be responsible for a whole tiny human they had created. It was insane and amazing and wondrous and batshit. It wasn’t that long ago that the notion of having a child was as foreign to him as China. 

And yet…they—society, the city of Chicago, the universe, whatever—were going to let *him* take care of a *baby*. It was mindboggling.

The closer Claire grew to her due date, the more bewildered he was that this was indeed reality. But he’d be lying if he claimed he wasn’t psyched. Because he was. Having a kid was never anything he’d seriously thought about—in the past, the topic was mostly relegated to blanket “no glove, no love” edicts from Claire until she went on the pill; ha, *that* had worked out—but now that he’d had time to come around to the idea, he was pretty jazzed at the thought of having a miniature version of himself around. 

Claire, of course, protested that the kid could end up becoming a miniature version of her, but Bender blood was a powerful thing. Boy or girl, it was totally gonna be a mini John or Johnna. 

Obviously, even if it did turn out to be a mini Claire, he’d love it just the same, but he still sure as shit wasn’t going to be doing any pedicures. 

Back to Night of the Lowing Dead: “Miss Standish does not need the extra stress of you coming home at all hours, any time you want.”

Bender had to laugh. Any time he wanted, yeah, right. “Well, ma’am, 'Miss Standish' knows that I have a job, and I’m done for the day when my boss says I’m done for the day. Do you know that word, Mrs. Lowing? J-ooooo-b.” 

Lowing’s drawn-on eyebrows narrowed to a V above her beady little eyes. “You are such a smart aleck. Why does she put up with you?”

“Honestly, Mrs. L., I have no idea. Good night and sleep tight!”

Inside the apartment, it was a little after seven. He expected to find Claire in the living room as she usually was when he came home, either reading, channel surfing, or baking. Since she’d graduated a few months previous, Claire, in her words, had been able to “take a giant breath” and go back to doing stuff for fun, as she wasn't planning to start looking for work until well after the kid was born. Which meant a lot of MTV, romance novels with a rippling Fabio on the cover, and/or leafing through the Betty Crocker Cookbook for new things to make. Her love of baking was a recent development. The results were hit or miss. Cake—well, that was hard to screw up. Even if it wasn’t fully baked through, it was still fucking cake. Her peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies, though, could’ve been used as weapons of mass destruction. 

Privately, in his head, he referred to her as Bizarro Martha Stewart. He’d never call her that to her face. Bender would prefer to keep his nads. 

But she wasn’t on the couch or the weird settee with her stocking feet up on the coffee table (an act he enjoyed catching her unconsciously performing). Nor was she in the kitchen about to start a fire. 

Shrugging off his denim jacket, he went to hang it on the coat hook while enquiringly calling her name. “Claire?”

And then, he heard it. 

Groaning. The echo of something hitting water. And, most tellingly, gagging. 

Bender grimaced. At least he knew where Claire was. 

Sighing, he started for the bathroom. In his naïveté, he’d assumed that her morning sickness would just, like, stop after her first trimester. A switch pressed or a lever turned.

Granted, most (okay, all) of his “expertise” came by the way of movies and sitcoms, but the directors wouldn’t just tell straight up lies, right? 

Wrong. Obviously. According to this article he’d read in 'Parenting', “morning” sickness—which, lo and behold, could in fact occur at any time, day or night—could actually last way longer than the first trimester. It wasn’t as common, but it happened in certain cases, especially when women had been exhibiting bad symptoms early on. 

Some moms-to-be could get away without getting very sick at all. Some could…not. Figured Claire would fall into the latter category. 

Bender pushed open the slightly ajar bathroom door and found his girlfriend on the tiled floor bowing to the porcelain god, her face hidden in the bowl. One hand was clutching the rim while the other held back her mass of red hair, protecting it from the waterfall of puke. Wordlessly, he knelt down and replaced her hand with his, keeping her shiny (and expensively upkept) hair from her face.

The retching and the sound of puke falling on water continued for another minute or so. When there was a lull, he cautiously asked, “You all right?”

Claire lifted her head from the bowl a fraction. “I think I…*no*.” Then replaced it as the gagging and the other lovely noises continued. 

Finally, the ralphing subsided. Claire pulled her head out of the bowl and, without looking up, lowered the cushioned seat and reached up to flush the toilet, groaning. 

Bender rose and rifled through the medicine cabinet for the bottle of Listerine. He poured a capful, grabbed a clean washcloth, and bent down to place them both in her expectant, hovering hand. They’d performed this song and dance before. 

She gargled the Listerine and spit it out in the toilet, flushing again. Then, she wiped her mouth with the washcloth. 

“Thank you,” Claire mumbled, then promptly splayed out on the bathroom floor, boneless. 

Bender pursed his lips and sank down beside her, balancing on the balls of his feet. “You know, Princess, lying on the floor isn’t very *pristine* of you.”

“I told you, I’m not that pristine,” she mumbled, staring up at the ceiling. The harsh florescent lighting underscored how pale she was and highlighted the deep bags beneath her eyes. 

He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “Come on, babe, get up. There’re germs and shit.” 

“There are germs everywhere.”

Bender conceded that. “Granted. But I’m betting the bathroom floor’s even more gnarly, so…time to get up.”

Claire moaned, still staring at the damn ceiling. “But it’s so cool down here. I’m so *hot*.” 

Bender’s pervy guy brain instantly cooked up a lascivious joke that he somehow managed to squash before it jumped off his tongue. In his defense, she’d walked right into it, but he knew now was definitely not the time. As stated, he wanted to keep his huevos, thank you. 

Instead, he hesitated a second before scooping her shattered body in his arms and rising. He wobbled a little bit but he hoped Claire hadn’t noticed; she’d get on one of her “I’m so fat!” tangents, and those things could last for hours. 

Claire groaned again but straightened her spine and wrapped her wet noodle-like arms around his neck. Across the corridor, he pushed some crap off the bed—one of his jackets, a fashion magazine, a small bag of Doritos he probably shouldn’t have been eating in here—and cautiously lay her down atop the flannel bedspread. Her sweaty red head was supported by the multitude of throw pillows she insisted were necessary. The Bart Simpson headboard grinned “Eat my shorts!”

Bender then dragged the fan into the room and fiddled with the temperature in the apartment. Chicago was having a heatwave, but it’d be freezing in 1907. 

“Oh, God. Air,” Claire exclaimed as the fan blew back her hair from her face. “Thank you, John.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he shuffled toward the bed, looming over her. “You all right now, Cherry?”

Claire nodded. “Other than the low-grade nausea, yes. Thank you.”

Disappearing to the kitchen for a moment, he grabbed two items—one from the fridge and one from the cabinet over the oven—then walked back to the bedroom. 

“What’s this?” Claire asked groggily as he handed her the can of ginger ale and the box of crackers. 

“Ginger ale and Saltines,” he explained, shrugging. “Supposed to help, I guess.”

His girlfriend’s answering smile was wide, and he felt a little goofy inside. Her beatific smile always did that to him, especially if it was aimed *at* him. “You’ve been reading the baby books.” 

Again, he shrugged. Trying to play down that “Oh, Gorsch!” sentiment her smile still did to him after over five years. “I’m halfway through 'What to Expect When You’re Expecting'. Pretty good. Kinda graphic.”

Last month, they had gone to Women and Children First, an independent bookstore in Andersonville focused on…lady issues and lady stuff. There were shelves of books about child-rearing, sexually transmitted diseases, women’s fashion (Claire had spent an inordinate amount of time in that aisle), children’s lit, and feminist authors. When he got over the initial ick of books on, like, menstrual cramps and yeast infections—people actually wrote books about that shit?—he kind of dug the place. He’d certainly learned some stuff. Before Claire dragged him there, the only feminist he’d known of was Betty Friedan, and only because 'The Feminine Mystique' was one of his ma’s favorite books. At the store, he browsed tomes by Elizabeth Cady Stanton, a name he’d only vaguely known before, and Margaret Atwood, who wrote some novel about rich dudes turning women into baby canons in this crazy religious dystopian America. He’d picked himself up a copy. 

Also an edition of a Japanese kids’ book called 'Everyone Poops'. Bender had snickered carrying it to the counter. This was going to be the first thing he read to the kid. 

Anyway, she’d picked up some pregnancy books. Most were by some bullshit doctor, but the so-called “pregnancy bible” she’d talked about was decent enough. Informative. Kind of nasty. 

Claire sat up against the pillows and cracked open the ginger ale. “Well! Aren’t you full of surprises today?”

Again, John shrugged. “Hey. I’m expecting too, you know. Sort of. Just…not like you are.”

She snorted whilst ripping open a sleeve of crackers. “I should hope not. You’d need to get some things checked.” 

“I’ll make an appointment with Doc. See if there’s anything going on in here I should know about.” John patted his stomach.

Claire started to laugh, which quickly turned into a moan as she clutched her own abdomen. “Oh, God, don’t make me laugh. I feel like shit. Like, complete and utter shit.”

Frowning, he came to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “I thought you said you were feeling better, Sweets.”

She made a face, scrunching up her nose like a chipmunk. It’d have been cute in any other situation. “I mean, comparably? But overall, still utter shit. Ugh. And here I thought the morning sickness was supposed to only last the first trimester.” 

He didn’t mention that he’d been thinking the exact same thing a few minutes earlier. “So…this is, like, normal? Um, should we talk to Doc?” 

He hadn’t gotten to the “buckets of puke” portion of the book yet. He didn’t exactly know where the any-time-of-day sickness tapered.

To his relief, Claire just meekly shook her head. “I already did. Dr. Devers said morning sickness can last all pregnancy. It’s not supposed to be as bad, but for some women, they never stop throwing up. And I guess I’m one of the lucky ones. Yay me.”

John scratched the back of his neck. “And…you’re sure you’ll be able to do this thing in November?”

Sporto and Crazy’s rehearsal at that creepy cathedral was to be at the beginning of November when Claire was *very* pregnant. Like “two or three weeks before she was due” pregnant. John hadn’t liked it, but both Claire and the Doc insisted that it was fine, as long as there weren’t issues down the road. The wedding itself, however, wasn’t planned until a few months after she gave birth.

Claire nodded distractedly. “I just hope I stop puking then. Like I want to barf in front of the whole wedding party.”

He sighed. Would he ever feel confident in this comforting thing? “Cheer up, Cherry. It’s only for a few more months. Besides, frowns lead to wrinkles and you’ll give your mother a heart attack.” 

Claire whapped his arm, but she was smiling. 'Well. Score one for me'. “You’re such a jerk. Oohhh. Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to make dinner. I was too busy ralphing.” 

“You mean ‘Brian-ing’.” 

It was quite obvious she was struggling not to chuckle again. “Yes. I was busy Brian-ing, and don’t ever tell him we were using his name as a euphemism for puke.” 

John sprawled out on the bed beside her, head resting on the pillow. Her head came to lay on his chest, her back over his bicep, and he wrapped an arm around her. The other he used to wave off her concerns as if swatting a fly. “Pfft. Big Bri’s used to it. His middle name *is* a euphemism for puke.”

Her ripe cherry lips parted in a grin. “You’re an ass.”

Bender’s shoulders bobbed as best they could in his position. “You love it. Anyway, I’ll just order a pizza.”

Closing her eyes, Claire moaned once more. He could feel the reverberation where their bodies touched. “Don’t mention pizza! Unless you want me Brian-ing all over you.” 

John grimaced and reached for the phone. He had the local pizza place on speed dial. “Okay. I’ll order a Frisbee.” 

She snorted. 

When the pizza place picked up and he put in his order—a large meat lover’s, with extra sausage, bacon, and cheese—Claire scrambled up from the bed; he heard the echo of retching a moment later. 

Pursing his lips, Bender replaced the phone, rose, and walked across the hall to the bathroom. 'Back to the Brian-ing board'.  
**

Feldklein’s, a vintage little bridal shop in Logan Square, was where Allison and her wedding party could be found today. As Stubbie had booked her wedding for the end of January—just before St. Francis’ closed up shop until September but a few months after Claire was scheduled to deliver Untitled Standish-Bender Project—she knew she was cutting it a wee bit close with her appointment. After all, it was the beginning of August. And she knew a lot of brides-to-be purchased their dresses very early on in the planning process so that the altercations could be complete for the Big Day. But, alas, she’d recently begun teaching a sketching and painting course at the Y, one class for little kids and another for bored teenagers, so she’d been a bit preoccupied. 

She also hated trying on clothes. Especially dresses. She was still trying to convince Claire and Eleanor to let her buy a pair of Palazzo pants. It…it was not going well, as predicted. 

She and Andy had already chosen their wedding cake, though, flavor and design. Inside was to be red velvet (because Allison liked the thought of consuming something the color of blood) with a cream cheese frosting and covered with black and maroon fondant. Why the fondant? That led to the design, which was to be zombie wedding-themed, complete with a miniature cemetery, little edible figurines to represent Zombified Allison and Andy, tattered duds, and creaky, hunched-over trees like the ones dotting the St. Francis’ grounds. It was going to look so cool! 

They had purchased the cake at a bakery that specialized in horror-themed confections. Most people went there for parties and even the odd horror movie filmed in Chicago. Rarely were they asked to do a wedding, the head baker confided, as brides usually preferred something less…grotesque. Perfect for Allison. 

Ally and Andy had also decided on the flowers—classic de-thorned roses, the color of fresh blood, as well as a matching boutonniere for Andy. Carol had suggested white daisies, and because Ally didn’t wish to upset her new mother-in-law, she had a few interspersed in all of the bouquets and lining that red velvet aisle runner she’d found at—no shit—a garage sale. 

Now, they needed to hire the caterer and find a band to do the music. It was en vogue to hire a wedding singer—Carol had suggested a guy who often performed at the local reception hall in Shermer, a friend of hers who’d gotten hitched himself a few years ago and moved out here from the East Coast, Holt or Hart or something—but Ally’s vision was less 80s-cheesy and more classic-meets-rock-n’-roll. Ideally, she wanted to hire a string quartet and a rock band. She knew that it would totally blow their budget, so was leaning toward choosing a Chicagoan group that had a violinist or whatever. 

The dress appointment Ally was dreading. Though, she would’ve feared it more had she allowed Claire to persuade her to find a gown at one of the boutique bridal shops on Michigan. “It’s totally where I would go!” she’d exclaimed with a desirous look in her eyes. Nope, Bender had not proposed yet. They were having a baby; Allison had no idea what he was waiting for. But she’d given up trying to figure the asshole out long ago. 

She’d ultimately decided on Feldklein’s for its more laid-back, retro vibe. The boutiques on Michigan were all staffed with salespeople who looked at Allison like she was Beetlejuice in a skirt. The staff at Feldklein’s, at least, regarded Ally as a paying customer and not a paying insect. And the vintage-y costumes they ambled around in were cool. 

“Greetings and salutations!” drawled the Feldklein’s associate in a perfect Christian Slater in Heathers imitation. “Allison Reynolds and party, right? Come on back.”

The associate, whose nametag read “Iona”, looked to be somewhere in her forties, but every other forty-something woman she knew was conservative and dolled up to sleek perfection—consequence of having grown up a richie. Iona, on the other hand, looked like she had stepped out of a sixties beach movie from the waist down and, from the waist up, a contemporary hair band video. On her person, she donned a lovely pink tea-length dress that was sprinkled with white polka-dots, matching pink heels, and pearls. Her hair and makeup, paradoxically, was dark and wild—black lipstick, smoky eye shadow, ebony tresses streaked with hot pink, and dangling silver cross earrings. 

She was like a human mullet—party on the top, all business beneath the collarbone. Allison liked her immediately. 

Iona led them to a violet chaise lounge spattered with neon pink flowers. “Welcome to Feldklein’s. Excuse the name. I wanted to rechristen the place something cool like The Knot or Bitchin’ Brides, but I promised the previous owner before I bought the shop that I’d honor her legacy. Or whatever.” 

Allison nodded. So Iona was the new owner. “What’d you do before?”

Brunette Blondie shrugged. “Eh, I owned a vintage record store. When it went under, I bought this place.”

Jackie cocked her head. “Why’d it go under?”

Iona scoffed. “My former employee’s boyfriend’s dad bought the place. Stocked it with, like, Simon & Garfunkel and Perry Como. Ran it right into the ground. Ah, she’s still a good kid, though.” Looking directly at Claire, the owner of Feldklein’s tilted her head. “You kinda look like her.” 

Claire was very clearly trying not to cringe at being compared to a vintage record store employee. 

“She wasn’t pregnant, though,” the owner continued thoughtfully. “You’re not Allison, are you? Because I don’t have any maternity dresses. Gotta pre-order those.” 

The actual Allison stepped forward. “No, that’s me. No baby here.” She didn’t think so, anyway. 

Claire rolled her eyes. “Is it really that obvious?” 

Allison, Eleanor, Jackie and Iona looked her up and down and, as one, confirmed, “Yes.” 

Claire crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. Allison snickered. 

Iona clapped her black-tipped hands. “Okay! After getting a vibe of your taste over the phone, I picked out a sampling of gowns, both bridal and bridesmaid.” 

Wheeling a rack of dresses in all colors before a standing three-way mirror, the girls rose and began rifling through them, Claire and Eleanor with way more confidence than either Allison or Jackie. Already, Ally could feel herself getting overwhelmed as she leafed through gown after gown in all textures—taffeta, cotton, chiffon, lace, there were even some in wool and lycra. She would not be wearing those, that was for sure. 

Claire, Jackie, and Eleanor picked out dresses that they liked and encouraged Allison to try each on. Claire’s pick was a huge princess dress—Naturally—with big, puffy sleeves made of taffeta and a sweetheart neckline. Her friend thought Ally looked “darling” in it. Allison only tried it on to placate her. 

Jackie’s choice was more understated, but not exactly her style—a tea-length silk A-line in an interesting hue of ice blue. Ally felt like a ballerina or an ice skater in it. 

Eleanor’s option reflected her Pageant Girl past—a strapless, sleek silk and chiffon trumpet gown with an attached mini-train. Or maybe it was a tail. Allison was not up on her fashion lingo. 

Dress after dress after dress—mermaid, sheath, ball gown, fit-and-flare. Vocab word after vocab word after vocab word. But nothing screamed “Allison”. 

“This one’s cute,” her sister said, holding aloft an off-the-shoulder French vanilla lace sheath.

Claire was already shaking her head. “The goal is for her to look *gorgeous*, not cute. How about this one?” 

Ally’s expression went flat as she gazed upon the blush-hued A-line with a triangular neck and a sparkly…thing at the hip. “Claire, it’s pink.”

The redhead ticked her eyes toward the gown she was holding. “It’s not pink! It’s just…tinted.” 

Allison blinked her stare heavenward. “Whatever. I want something different but not…too out there.” She didn’t want to offend Carol by walking up the aisle in an all black dress with, like, fishnets and bangles. “Something cool and classic. Something maybe…”

That was when Iona, who’d been watching the goings on silently, disappeared and returned a moment later with her own choice draped over her arm. “I think you’ll like this one. I’ve had it for a while. It’s been waiting for just the right bride.”

And then the owner held it up and it was perfect. 

Allison had never in a million years figured that she’d go for a ball gown, but this was *the* ball gown. *Her* ball gown. A v-neckline bodice bloomed out to layer upon layer of white tulle skirt overlaid with thin black lace. The bodice contained silk sleeves and featured creeping black lace that formed floral patterns throughout the frame of the dress. In the back, a black closure fastened at the nape of her neck while a large swath of skin remained visible. 

It was everything Ally had been looking for—classic but cool, different but not too weird. Maybe she could even wear her Chucks with it!

Ally went to try it on immediately, and, upon emerging from the dressing room, she knew she had to have it when the rest of her party gasped. Allison peeked in the mirror and fell in love. 

With a dress. She never thought she’d see the day. 

“Oh my God!” Eleanor, predictably, exclaimed, squealing. “Oh my God! You have to take that one, Al!”

Jackie concurred. “It’s perfect for you, and you look great in it.” 

Even picky Claire was beaming. “It’s fate. If you don’t buy it now, I will!”

Iona returned again with a velvety black slash, which she floated over Allison and tied around her waist. The crushed material draped elegantly down to the floor. 

“Oh my God! It’s essential, Al!”

“Buy that dress now!”

“If it’s over-budget, I’m paying the difference. You, like, *must* get it.”

After picking out a complimentary veil and an extra black bow to wrap around her bouquet—as well as a pair of black open-toed shoes, Claire would not hear of “any nonsense about you wearing your beat-up Chuck Taylors”—Iona took Allison’s measurements, and she handed over her AmEx. The gown—The Gown—had just barely come under her dress budget. 

Ally couldn’t believe it. She was another step closer to becoming Mrs. Andrew Clark.   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: lol, I, too, thought that morning sickness would just, like, stop after the first trimester. My friends who've had kids assured me otherwise. Two of them were sick throughout the entire pregnancy.
> 
> Note 2: Matt Groening is a big fan of John Hughes and TBC in particular (hell, he put them on a cutaway gag wherein Andy pulls a Larry Lester on Dick while the rest of them cheer him on), and obvs "Eat my shorts!" was a direct nod (possibly Nelson Muntz also, more indirectly, the long-haired, denim-wearing jackass who is not always a jackass and comes from a shattered homelife). I find it amusing that Bender would have a Bart Simpson headboard crowing his catchphrase. 
> 
> Note 3: 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' came out in 1984 while 'The Handmaiden's Tale' came out the following year. 'Everyone Poops' was published in the 70s.
> 
> Note 4: Women and Children First is a real ladies-centric bookstore in Andersonville. It opened in 1979.
> 
> Note 5: Feldklein's is the backwards version of Kleinfeld's, the famous bridal store in NYC and where 'Say Yes to the Dress' is filmed. 
> 
> Note 6: In my world, 'The Wedding Singer' takes place in the same universe as TBC. Why not? Movie set around the same time, and it was featured in an episode of 'The Goldbergs' last season xD
> 
> Note 7: Welcome back Annie Potts' Iona from 'Pretty in Pink'. Sorry Blaine's dad drove Trax under. And yes, I know Andie cut up her prom dress but that mutation she wore was horrible--seriously, she should've just stuck to the thing her dad bought her--and I imagine Iona searched for one like it. Really, Andie, Iona let you *borrow* the dress, not gave permission to cut it all up!


	14. Chapter 13: Big

Chapter 13: Big

Andrew had never been very good at reading between the lines. Especially where women were concerned. 

He supposed it began with his mother when he was but a child. Carol had taken all the Clark boys on a daytrip to the Lincoln Park Zoo one summer’s day while his old man was at work. They spent all day ambling around, taking pictures and gawking at the animals. When they reached the elephant exhibit, his mom got visibly excited; her favorite animal, she said, was the elephant. So little Andy, all of seven, wandered off to the zookeeper in charge of the elephants, tugged on his shorts, and asked him pointblank what elephants cost because his mommy loved them and he wanted to buy one for her for her birthday. 

Carol found him after suffering a miniature heart attack talking calmly with the zookeeper, who just kept ruffling his hair and laughing. 

Andy ended up simply drawing his seven-year-old version of an elephant in red crayon and presenting it to her. She still had it taped up in her work locker. 

Then, some years later in junior high, Andy was about to celebrate Valentine’s Day with his first girlfriend, Sophia. Sophia kept dropping hints, so excited, reiterating that on Valentine’s, couples “give each other their hearts”. Fast forward to the day in question, and he and Sophia traded gifts. She got him a stuffed Superman holding a big red heart, and he gave her a rubber model of an actual human heart. Sophia screamed, claimed he wasn’t taking their first V-Day seriously, and promptly broke up with him. 

As with most things, Andy was sure this was his father’s doing. The man was literal to a fault. He’d evidently inherited it. 

So, when his fiancée told him, with a bitter laugh, that her parents had planned a cruise to the Caribbean for the exact week they were getting married, he sought out to rectify this, pronto. And that meant showing up to the Reynolds’ house on Baron Drive and persuading Joseph and Lenore Reynolds to put off their cruise for another time. Allison really wanted her parents to be at her wedding, he said. For her dad to give her away. 

When he triumphantly secured their attendance and returned to Chicago to tell Ally, she was decidedly less enthused than he thought she’d be. 

Allison blinked at him for a few seconds, then lowered her eyelids in an expression he knew well. Oh, boy. He’d messed up. “You what?”

Andy ducked his neck into his shoulders like a bashful turtle. “I, uh, convinced your parents to postpone their vacation to attend the wedding? And, um, soyourdadcanwalkyoudowntheaisle.” 

This last he added without a single breath between the words. 

Dark eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “Okay, why would you do that, Andy?” 

He bobbed his shoulders. “I thought you wanted them to be there? I mean, you sounded…pissed off that they were planning a cruise for just that week.” 

Ally blew her brown bangs out of her eyes. “Yeah, I was. But that didn’t mean I wanted you to get them to *come*.” 

Andy was confused. “Then…why were you angry?”

“Because they’re my parents!”

“Ally—“ 

“They’re my *parents* and they don’t care that their daughter is getting *married*,” Allison interrupted, throwing her arms in the air. “Or at least they didn’t care enough not to plan a vacation for that very week. But if they were, I just wanted to complain about it. I didn’t need you to plead my case, Sporto.”

Andy cringed. She rarely called him Sporto. Usually only when they were fighting. “I’m sorry. I just thought you wanted them there.”

In his excuse, Andrew was a doer, not a listener. When presented with a problem, he instantly went to work finding a way to solve it. He went about it the way he would a math problem—his best subject in school—disassembling the equation piece by piece until he came up with an appropriate answer. It all seemed so obvious to him. The idea of *talking* about a dilemma but not *doing* anything about it was completely foreign to him. 

'Sometimes, I really do not understand the fairer sex.'

Allison sighed. “I would’ve liked your mom to walk me down the aisle. Or maybe even one of your brothers.”

Andy felt like crap. How could he have gotten her wishes so wrong? He was usually so good at reading her. At first, she’d been hard to pin down, but now he was an expert at all things Allison. 

Or he had been, anyway. “I’m sorry, Al. I…can go back and tell them not to come?”

Allison half-smirked and patted his leg. “It’s okay. I know your heart was in the right place. And please don’t, I can only imagine that would be incredibly awkward, and I’m getting secondhand embarrassment just thinking about it.” She shrugged as he laughed. “Might be interesting, having them there. That’s if my mom doesn’t spend the whole wedding critiquing my dress, and Dad keeps away from the open bar. And the punch I know Bender will spike.” 

Andy half-chuckled, half-cringed. “I forgot your dad was an alcoholic.”

From what little Allison had told him, Joseph Reynolds had checked into an exclusive rehab facility in the city once then promptly checked out after two days, citing “boredom”. His drink of choice was a scotch on the rocks, which Andy would have to inform the open bar not to serve. 

In fact, he may scrap the open bar altogether, now. 

“Correction,” Allison negated. “He’s a *functioning* alcoholic. We’re a family of richies. When rich people are off the wagon, they’re still pretty good at appearing put-together and respectable in polite company.” 

There was that, at least. “Then maybe it’ll be okay?”

“I said *polite* company.”   
**

Claire started her September appointment with Dr. Devers by smacking headfirst into Jennifer Beals.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, Alex. I mean, Ms. Beals.” Claire felt herself blushing. She could *not* believe that she had just addressed one of her favorite celebrities as her character in 'Flashdance.'

For her part, Jennifer Beals took the slipup in stride and laughed. “No problem. Thanks for watching!”

John, having been a few paces behind her after parking the car, gawked as Jennifer slid past him out of the waiting room. Slowly, he craned his neck to meet Claire’s eyes, blinked, and shook his head. “Damn. That’s the fifth bold name we’ve run into here.”

Aside from Jennifer, they’d also spotted Cindy Crawford, Bill Murray, Harrison Ford, and Daryl Hannah. John had nearly wept upon glimpsing Han Solo. 

Claire paused midway to the check-in desk. “Are you counting?”

“You bet your sweet ass I am, Princess.”

Claire chuckled, rolled her eyes, and marched up to the receptionist to check in. That done, she took a seat on the floral sofa, opposite a couple who were quietly arguing about their shared infidelity. He accused her of sleeping with his best friend. She accused him of sleeping with *everyone*. The guy looked a bit like John.

When he sat down beside her, Claire whispered in his ear. “That guy over there kind of looks like you.”

John followed her gaze and scoffed. “That preppy loser? Please. I’m insulted, Cherry.” He paused. “Chick’s a ringer for Allison, though. You know, if Al was at all conventional.”

Studying the buttoned-up brunette, she had to agree. It kind of unnerved her, seeing the two together. 

There wasn’t ample time to stare, though. The nurse appeared, again dressed in all white scrubs, and called Claire’s name. Both she and John rose and followed the dour-faced woman into Dr. Devers’ examining room. She didn’t know why the nurse always looked angry. Employees were paid quite handsomely here. 

“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” the nurse drawled after giving her the pink gown to change into. 

Claire did so, ignoring John pointedly staring at her breasts like he was Clifford and they were dog treats. 

Dr. Devers swept into the examining room just as she managed to orient herself on top of the chaise lounge. “Ah, if it isn’t my favorite couple. Welcome back.”

John took the doctor’s outstretched hand. “Doc! Your room looks like it was painted by a Smurf.” 

He had a point, Claire conceded. The square space had undergone a little remodel recently. Gone was the linoleum tile, replaced with a fluffy white carpet. The previously whitewashed walls were now totally painted different shades of blue—aqua, Pacific, robin’s egg, and blueberry. The wainscoting, too, was a pale sky blue. Even the replacement cabinets were a royal blue hue. Solely the doctor’s desk remained gleaming chestnut. 

Dr. Devers cringed a bit. “I know. It was my grandson’s idea. I needed a remodel, and he suggested ‘make the whole room blue’. I probably should not take interior decorating advice from a five-year-old.”

Claire snickered and glanced at the framed photograph of a smiley young boy with too-long bangs wearing, what else, all blue. 

John bobbed his head. “That is a good code to live by, Doc.”

“I think so as well. Now.” The doctor chuckled and spun on his heel to turn on Ulli. “You’ll both do well to remember that when your little one is that age.”

“Not so little, Doc,” John negated, sniggering. He was seated on the chair beside the examination lounge, one leg propped up on the opposite knee. 

“Ah, that’s right,” Dr. Devers answered, tapping some of Ulli’s keys. He glanced up at Claire over the ultrasound machine’s monitor. “Claire, my apologies.” 

She grimaced whilst John laughed some more. Every sonogram so far had revealed that the gestating Untitled Standish-Bender Project was a bit heavier and longer than the average fetus at each stage. John wasn’t surprised, himself having been “as big as a three-month-old puppy” when he was born. Claire was a bit frightened. A lot frightened. Birth was supposed to be the most physically draining thing a woman endured. Add the fact that she was going to push out an infant the size of a small Labrador…

'Damnit, John!'

Obviously, he found the whole state of affairs amusing. He wasn’t the one who was going to have to squeeze that thing out! 

Claire slanted her eyes. “I am going to need a huge amount of drugs. Like, the kind that leave me comatose for a week.” 

Her boyfriend glanced at her. “I could probably get you some of that shit. Have to go down to the South Side, though.” 

She was not deterred. “I’m going to be forcing your oversized spawn out of my…person. The least you can do is brave the South Side for me.”

John’s grin widened, became downright wolfish. Claire tried to ignore the intense pull of WANT NOW. Her hormones were really making her crazy. “Out of your what, pray tell, Princess?”

Claire flipped him the bird. John cackled. 

Dr. Devers, seated behind Ulli, shook his head. “Today’s generation.”

“John is a generation all his own.” If young people of the 80s were Gen X, John was Gen Triple X. 

He shrugged and flashed the rock on symbol.

Once Ulli was all booted up, Dr. Devers rose from the desk chair behind the machine, grabbed a bottle of that grody blue gel, and began smearing it over Claire’s exposed—and now quite distended—abdomen. Then, he tapped the transducer probe and lowered it to her stomach. 

A minute later, Dr. Devers spun the ultrasound machine around, and their baby’s strong heartbeat could be heard echoing throughout the very blue examination room. Wall to wall, corner to corner. “And here’s Baby Bender, folks!”

Instantly, upon glimpsing their gestating child curled up against one of her uterine walls, Claire felt her eyes begin to water as her lips stretched into a smile. That was their baby. They had created a baby. It was still so mind-blowing to her, so fantastic. In the past, Claire had always rolled her eyes when a friend from high school or a distant cousin breathed that glimpsing their baby on the sonogram machine was the most wondrous feeling in the world until the infant itself was born. Assuming they were exaggerating or being overdramatic. It was a baby; most women were physically able to carry a baby, right? 

Well, that may be. But this was *their* baby, and those women had been correct. Gazing at the child she and John had created would never feel anything less than awe-inspiring. It was adorable and beautiful and she could see its little fingers! 

'Aw, little baby fingers!'

John, too, had a dopey grin on his face. It was the expression he usually wore during these appointments. He looked as if he had been sucker punched in the face, and Claire thought it was so sweet. 

Sometimes, she even caught his eyes growing shiny. But he’d never admit it in a million years. 

Still gawking at the screen, he fumbled for her hand, possibly without thinking. Dr. Devers silently passed her a Kleenex. 

“Now, as you can see,” the OBGYN began, pointing a wooden stick to the fetus on the monitor. “We’re getting more movement. The baby’s motor functions and equilibrium are becoming more controlled.” The pointer slid downward toward those little fingers Claire adored, where they formed a tiny fist. “Eyelashes are forming. And, oh! Look closely; the eyes are open!”

As one, Claire and John craned their necks for a better view. The picture was fuzzy, but she could definitely discern a wide-open eye. It was gazing right at them! 

Stupidly, without thinking about it, Claire wiggled her fingers at the screen. 

That broke John out of his trance, and he guffawed. “He can’t see you, Cherry. I hate to break it to you.”

Claire pouted. “I know *she* can’t, John. You’re ruining my fun!” 

He poked at her stomach, a patch of skin that wasn’t covered in the gross blue goop. “Your pregnancy brain is making you do crazy things. *He’s* in there.”

That was true, she had to admit. Yesterday, she’d left the car keys in the refrigerator and the milk in the bathroom. 

But that was neither here nor there. 

Claire waved him off. “I bet she’ll have my eyes.”

“And my hair,” he added, nodding his head as though it were a done deal. “And my chin. And my di—“ 

“John!”

John doubled over, cracking up. Claire merely shook her head and mouthed an apology to the doctor. 

'He can be so immature sometimes, I swear.'

Dr. Devers, however, was noticeably fighting a smirk. “I can put this argument to bed now. Pretty sure I can tell you the sex, if you want.”

Claire shook her head. They’d already had this discussion. “No, we want it to be a surprise. We have a bet going.”

“If it’s a boy, she owes me 20 bucks.”

“And if it’s a girl, *he* owes *me* 20 bucks.” 

They’d come up with this arrangement a few weeks ago when they were arguing over whether the delightful crib she’d picked out was, in John’s words, “too girly”. He thought the little castles and turrets on each end were very 'Cinderella'. Claire had scoffed that even if it *was* a boy, he wouldn’t particularly care what his crib looked like. But it was a *girl* so the argument was invalid. John claimed otherwise, and the bickering flowed until they decided on their Gender Reveal Bet. 

Dr. Devers laughed outright, his bristly mustache twitching. “All right, then. Keeping it a surprise. Okay, Claire, I want to examine you.”

This was the awkward part. Placing her ankles inside the clamps at the lower end of the chaise, Claire tried not to cringe as the doctor knelt between her thighs with a miniature light. She knew that Dr. Devers was a highly sought-after and accredited obstetrician, had been in the field for nearly thirty years, and thus had seen more than his fair share of…lady parts. But Claire found it difficult to navigate around the “family friend inspecting my vagina” mental block. 

Once that was thankfully over, the doctor inserted a needle in her arm and began the process of taking blood for the second time during her pregnancy. This was to measure her glucose levels at late-stage second trimester—she had one to three weeks left before her third started—to ascertain she didn’t have gestational diabetes. Last appointment, he’d asked her to drink something sugary before this one so that he could measure the levels in her blood. 

Then, after sending the sample down to the lab for testing, Dr. Devers had her step on a scale. Claire groaned; this was the part that she’d been absolutely dreading. 

“Okay,” the doctor hummed as she stepped off the scale. “You’ve gained about twenty-one pounds so far—“

Claire grumbled and rubbed her rounded stomach. “I’ll never be able to fit into a size 4 again.” 

John rolled his eyes and mimed hanging himself. 

“As I said,” Dr. Devers continued, plainly amused. “You’ve gained twenty-one pounds. The fetus itself is about three pounds, according to the sonogram. I want you to gain at least ten or fifteen more before the baby is due.” 

Claire’s eyes all but bugged out of her skull. “Ten or fifteen more?! I’m already a sumo wrestler!” 

“But you’re the sexiest sumo wrestler I’ve ever seen,” John said, batting his eyelashes and snaking an arm around her shoulders. A beat later, his visage sobered. “Oh, man. I’ll never be able to watch sumo wrestling the same way now.” 

Dr. Devers scrawled a prescription on a legal pad, ripped it off, and handed it to her, along with the latest sonogram printout. “More pre-natal vitamins. And I will call you with the results of your glucose challenge.” 

Once in the car, Claire studied the printout and smiled all over again. In her womb, Untitled Standish-Bender Project kicked, as though sensing its mother’s happiness.  
**

“Oh, come on!”

“How could he miss that? And three fucking times?!”

“I thought you hated baseball, Bender. You said it’s boring, remember?”

There was a rock band t-shirt-covered shrug, then the sound of a lighter popping as Bender ducked his head to light the cigarette between his lips. “Whatever,” he replied, muffled. He stuck the cig between his index and middle fingers. “I’m here, aren’t I? May as well get in the spirit.” 

Then, he exhaled a cloud of gray smoke into the otherwise gorgeous, fresh air. The couple seated in front of them turned around and scowled.

Bender leaned forward in his blue plastic seat, rested his elbow on his leg, cupped his chin, and met the couple’s unsmiling expressions, staring hard at them. Raising the lit cigarette to his lips again, this time he exhaled smoke directly in their faces.

The guy half of the couple stood up and was about to punch Bender in the face when Andy, gratefully, intervened and slipped him a twenty to appease him. 

Brian was watching all these goings on with a cringe. So far, his friends were decidedly not making a good impression on Mr. Takahari. 

Slowly craning his neck, he studied the baleful expression on Jackie’s father’s face in the chair to his left. 

'Nope. Not a good impression at all.' 

Brian was really starting to regret asking his two best guy friends to accompany him and his girlfriend’s rather intimidating dad to a Cubs game at Wrigley. On his ceaseless quest to gain Mr. Takahari’s approval—or, failing that, to make the man stop glaring whenever he dropped Jackie off at her house—he’d spontaneously bought four tickets from a scalper selling them out of his trench coat near the Chicago Bean. Why the Bean, he had no idea. But bought them he had and, after somehow convincing Mr. Takahari to accompany him using some of the baseball history stats he’d spent an obscene amount of time memorizing, he then called up Bender and Andy and begged them to take tickets #3 and #4. 

“You guys, please? The thought of, um, being al—alone with him is giving me hives,” Brian had cajoled on the phone the Friday before, scratching at a pustule on his chin. And another on his hand. And bicep. 

“Then why did you buy the tickets in the first place, Dork?” Bender jeered. Brian could practically hear his eyes roll. 

He felt hot under his collar. Was the air on in here? “It was an impulse buy!” he exclaimed. According to Bender, this was Claire’s favorite excuse as to why she’d, say, purchased a pink drill she’d never use or five sets of the same pair of pants. 

“Sure, Bri. We’ll help you out,” Andy said on the three-way call. “It’s on Sunday, right? Ally wants to audition a prospective band for the wedding on Saturday.” 

Brian nodded, knowing that his friends couldn’t see him. “Sunday at 6. It’s a night game, kinda.” 

On the other end, Bender sighed. “Fine. But you’re buying me one of those foot-long hotdogs.” 

Fast forward to Sunday evening, and Brian yearned to slouch into the uncomfortable plastic seat and melt every time Mr. Takahari glowered witheringly at him. 

An usher—or whoever—came by after seeing the near fistfight, crossing his arms over his chest. In his left hand, he carried an open can of A&W. He looked directly at Bender, seated on the end of the row. “Sir, there’s no smoking in the stadium.”

Bender took one more puff on the cigarette. “Oh really?”

The man nodded. “Really, sir. If you wish, you can smoke in either the designated smoking areas or the bathrooms.”

Brian watched with dismay as he exhaled another puff. 

Thankfully, before yet another altercation could break out and Bender was escorted out of the stadium in handcuffs, Andy once again intervened. “Bender, just put out the damn cigarette, will you?”

“’Kay.” And very deliberately, he exhaled once more, then dropped the cigarette into the man’s root beer. 

The man scowled darkly. To his left, Mr. Takahari actually kind of looked amused. Or maybe less dour. 

As the man walked away, grumbling about “Gen X punks”, Bender grinned and rested his feet on the back of the chair before him. He wasn’t wearing his beat up Docs, just a pair of black Converse, but they had still seen better days. The woman half of the couple sneered over her shoulder. 

“You are such an asshole!” she cried, looking like she was about ready to leap over the chair and pummel him. 

Bender folded his hands behind his head. “So they tell me.” 

Her boyfriend rose. “Come on, Lisa, let’s see if we can find other seats.”

As they were leaving, Andy grabbed the guy’s wrist and said, “Excuse my friend. He was diagnosed with a rare disorder at birth where only half his brain cells are working at any given time.” 

Calmly, John flipped him off, a serene smile on his face. 

When they left, Brian turned to regard his friends, Andy seated directly to his right and John closing out the row. He hoped by outwardly disapproving of Bender’s actions, it’d win him some points with Mr. Takahari. “John, um, that wasn’t ver—very nice, you know.”

Bender leaned over and shot him a “Have you met me?” look. “Well, fiddle-dee-dee! I guess I won’t be getting a lollipop for being a good boy, huh, Dork.” 

Mr. Takahari barked a laugh. Brian was so startled, he nearly jumped out of his seat. That was the first time he’d ever observed Jackie’s father emitting an emotion other than cool displeasure. 

He watched with wide eyes as the man reached into the pocket of his slacks, pulled out a fifty, and passed it to Bender. “Take this.”

John held the note between his thumb and pointer finger dubiously. “What’s this for?”

“For making me laugh,” Mr. Takahari explained, his attention on the game again. “At least I can get *some* entertainment out of this.” 

Bender shrugged and pocketed the money. 

Brian swallowed. They were quite high up in the stadium, truly the nosebleed section above the nosebleed section. When he purchased the tickets, he hadn’t exactly studied them to discover which seats they were in. They really were an impulse buy. And, to make matters worse, Mr. Takahari was forced to crane his neck around a pillar in order to see anything at all. 

'Ohhh. Today’s not my day.'

Andy trained the blue binoculars he’d bought in one of the gift shops on the field. “Grace is at bat.” A pause. “I think.” 

Mark Grace was the Cubs’ first baseman. He was twenty-five, had played in 132 games so far, and had a .314 batting average. Brian knew all this from having studied every single Cubs players’ baseball card. 

Grace hit a homerun with a boisterous crack of ball against bat. And said ball was flying right toward Brian’s face. 

Panicking, he clambered to duck down, crossing his arms in front of his face. At the last second, Mr. Takahari reached a calm, mitted hand out and caught the wayward ball just before it was destined to smash in Brian’s nose. 

Andy whooped. Brian and Mr. Takahari flashed on the Jumbotron. Jackie’s father was smirking triumphantly while Brian was trying his absolute damnedest to disappear into the floor. 

John appeared behind their row just before the screen went dark and gave Brian bunny ears. Some of the stadium, Mr. Takahari included, tittered. 

Brian glared up at him, and Bender just pretended to whistle innocently. Then danced back to his seat to the beat of “We Will Rock You” playing over the loudspeakers. 

Later, in the bathroom as the boys were taking a break, Brian all but exploded. “Damnit, Bender! Why do you have t—to be so…you?!” 

John gazed up at him. Brian was a good two inches taller than the burnout, and, right now, he appreciated those two inches very much. His friend shrugged and lit another cigarette. “A question for the ages, Brainiac.” 

Brian shoved his fingers in his mass of blond curls and gripped, stalking the small bathroom to and fro. To and fro. “Now Mr. Takahari likes *you* better than *me*!”

“Because I’m awesome, we’ve been over this.” John was nonchalantly leaning against a stall, puffing on his cigarette. 

This day was definitely not going as he’d imagined. Not at all. 

Brian let out a deafening yell of frustration. Ah, that felt better. 

Andy, ever the diplomat, stepped between them both. “Bri, man, calm down. It’s okay.”

His ensuing laugh was bitter. “Calm down? I’m dating the man’s daughter and he hates me!”

“I’m sure he doesn’t—“ 

“This day was supposed to be, like, a bonding thing! I went out of my way to buy these tickets when I should’ve been saving up for Baltimore and—ugh!” In a moment of pure vexation, Brian reared his foot back and smashed his Pumas into the nearest wall. The ensuing shriek of pain was heard in the girls’ bathroom next door. 

Back in the stadium, Mr. Takahari was watching the Cubs’ Damon Berryhill strike out to the Yankees’ pitcher, Clay Parker. Mr. Takahari hurled his game roster to the ground in frustration. “How could you miss that pitch?! It was a grapefruit! I can see that from up here in *space*!” 

During the inning change, Brian attempted to engage Jackie’s father with snippets of Cubs history he’d discovered in his studies. “Um, Mr.—Mr. Takahari, did you know that the Cubs had the most wins in 1906 of any team in the league?”

The man barely glanced at him. “Yes.”

Brian scrambled for another tidbit. “And, um, did you know that the Cubs were one of the most successful teams in the MLB following World War Two? They were on track to win the pennant. When the Japanese surrendered, Andy Pafko hit a grand slam.” 

At that, Mr. Takahari turned to him, eyes half-mast. “My parents and grandparents were affected by the bomb dropping on Nagasaki. Grandfather lost a leg. My mother still has scars on her face.” 

Brian gulped and leaned back in his chair. Beside him, Andy and even Bender were cringing. 

It wasn’t until the seventh inning, with Don Mattingly swinging against Cubs pitcher Greg Maddux, that Brian, bored and feeling incredibly awkward, mumbled “He’ll never hit it. He’s crouching at an impossible angle”—and Mattingly struck out.

Mr. Takahari wore a curious expression on his face. “Can you do that again?”

Surprised, Brian met the man’s inquisitive eyes. Gesturing widely down to the field, he stuttered, “W—well, there is a good chance, um, that the next hitter—“

“Roberto Kelly.”

“R—right. Um, there’s a much better chance of contact because, um, K—Kelly is standing in an almost vertex, m—making the strike zone all but void.” 

As one, Mr. Takahari, Andy, and John returned their attention to the field, testing Brian’s hypothesis. Of course, Kelly hit a double on his first pitch. 

“Holy crap,” Bender wondered, staring between him and the field. 

“Damn,” Andy concurred, nodding appreciatively. 

Mr. Takahari regarded Brian. “And this next hitter?”

Brian studied the Yankees player at bat, Steve Sax. He’d seen him play before and understood his hitting style. “He’s fond of line drives. If he hits on a diameter, with the ball passing straight through, he could get out. If Ramos catches it, er, there’s a chance he could get Kelly out, too, before he hits third.”

Which was exactly what happened. Sax hit the ball, shortstop Domingo Ramos caught it in a line drive, then pitched it to Vance Law on third base.

Bender whistled. “Dork, I’m taking you to my bookie.”

Mr. Takahari studied Brian with a simple grunt of acknowledgement. “Hmm.”

'Maybe this day is salvageable after all.'  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three parts today.
> 
> Note 1: All the celebrities I mentioned, including Ms. Beals, are from the Chicago area.
> 
> Note 2: Second 'St. Elmo's Fire' shoutout xD I know it's not John Hughes but I couldn't help myself. It's the last one, I swear! (Of course, Bender would *hate* Alec. He's pretty much his antithesis.)
> 
> Note 3: I researched what Untitled Standish-Bender Project would look like near the end of the second trimester. I also read that this is usually when the glucose challenge is done. 
> 
> Note 4: All the players listed are either Cubs or Yankees players from 1989. Found at BaseballStats


	15. Chapter 14: Like A Virgin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part of this chapter is a wee bit more mature. It's not, like, raunchy or anything (I try to stay away from a lot of smut in fanfic, mostly because I know the characters from their original, trademarked incarnation and writing them that way makes me giggle like a schoolgirl crying "It's a PENIS!") but it's more adult than the other parts so warning.

Chapter 14: Like A Virgin

John’s twenty-second birthday was shaping up to be a weird one.

Not that most of his previous birthdays were anything to write home about (aside from last year’s Twenty-first Drink and Sex-a-thon, where half of it was spent in the bar proudly drowning in his new legal status and the other half was spent in bed with Claire working off the calories in all that alcohol). Generally, he put off celebrating his birthday, mostly out of habit. For years, there hadn’t really been anything *to* celebrate—yeah, another year stuck with his fucking dad who’d devote the occasion to Jim Beam and passing out in front of the TV, and his ma, who was constantly on and off the pill-popping—and even when Claire and the Breakfast Club came around, he wasted the day getting lost Back There. 

Claire had been itching to change that for years, but he always begged off and stuffed himself stupid on the couch instead. Or strummed his old acoustic guitar, which had the added benefit of driving Not So Sweet N’ Low batty. Oh, and also, it *really* turned Claire on. That was also fun. Very fun. 

He mourned the electric guitar he’d had to give to Ty because the old battle axe complained of “noise pollution” every time he used it. 

In any event, it started, really, the night before he was to turn twenty-two. It must’ve been two AM, and John was trying to sleep; he had to be at work in a few hours, birthday or no birthday. But, beside him, Claire would not stop rolling around, kicking him, and staring up at the ceiling. When she threw the flannel bedspread on the floor with a huff, John could not ignore her antics anymore.

“Cherry. What are you doin’?” he mumbled, hearing the sleep in his voice. 

Claire threw both arms in the air. “I can’t sleep. I’m too fucking hot.” 

So John stumbled into the living room for the fan, stood it over his very pregnant, very uncomfortable girlfriend, then fell back into bed as it whirred to life. 

Half an hour later, she was still awake. He opened his eyes again to find her reading one of those stupid romance novels in the glow of the book light above the bed. 

When his bedside alarm clock blinked three, a loud CLANG startled him from an enjoyable dream about Claire in one of those very large martini glasses. He shot up in bed and scrambled from beneath the covers, his heart pounding, worried that something had happened. Like she’d tripped and fallen or something. 

Instead, he found her in the kitchen making soup. At three AM. 

“Claire,” John began, scrubbing his face and leaning against the jamb separating the kitchen from the living room. “What, exactly, are you doing? Or am I having a really weird, really specific dream?” 

Claire did not turn from the stove, sifting a ladle through a pot on the hob. “I’m making soup.”

John digested this as best he could in a state of overtiredness. “Okay and...why?”

Still, she remained face forward. “I had a craving.” 

Bender blinked and was about to reply, then shrugged, turned around, and went back to bed. 

'Thank fuck it’s not one of the weird ones', he thought with a shudder as the coverlet fell over his shoulders. The memory of her assembling a peanut butter and sauerkraut sandwich was decidedly not a welcome one. The smell had lingered in the kitchen for a week. 

At least Claire had an excuse, though. Allison ate that crap for shits and giggles. 

When he rose at his usual 6:30 AM wakeup call, he stumbled for the bathroom, took a shower, wrapped a towel around himself, and walked back across the hall to change. When he realized he had no clean boxers in his underwear drawer, he rolled his eyes and started for the living room. 

“Claire!” he called, feeling the droplets of warm water drip from the ends of his hair and onto his skin. “Where is my—what the…?”

Upon entering the living room, the first sight he ventured upon was Claire’s tight ass in the air—covered, but still. She was bent over in some sort of A-shape, with her legs stretched out behind her and her head suspended a few inches above a long blue mat.

Beside her, on a matching mat, was Megan Hicks in the same crazy pose.

And here he was standing in only a towel—a Donald Duck towel, to be exact—dripping all over the place. 

“Hey, Bender, nice duds!” snickered Ty from the sofa. 

It took a lot to confuse John Bender, but…well, color him confused. “Ty? What the fuck are you doing here?”

Ty was stuffing donuts in his face. “Meg came back from Florida and wanted to see Claire. Thought I’d come with and we could drive to work. Birthday boys don’t shepherd themselves around!”

John was only partially mollified. Gazing at Claire and Megan’s weird shared position, he added, “And them?”

Ty shrugged, stuffing another Entenmann’s chocolate donut in his mouth. “Yoga.” 

All right then. 

“Pregnancy yoga,” Claire contributed. Her voice was slightly muffled from, you know, being upside down. “We’re in the downward dog pose.” 

He did not know what that meant, but he was certainly feeling the opposite of “downward” admiring her ass barely sheathed under a pair of tiny gray shorts. 

'Might be a position to incorporate elsewhere.'

John gripped the enclosure of the towel, just in case. Didn’t wanna give Ty and Megan a show. “And…that’s okay? Pregnancy yoga, I mean.”

The reply came from the back of Claire’s red head. “Dr. Devers recommended the tape to me. He said pregnancy yoga’s good for Mom and Baby.”

He did not see how the kid being rotated in Claire’s stomach like a chicken on a spit could be a good thing, but okay. 

“Also.” Straightening, she ambled toward him as best she could with her quite swollen abdomen, smiled brightly, and kissed his unshaven cheek. “Happy birthday!” 

John rubbed the back of his neck. He never knew how to respond to birthday well-wishers. “Yeah, yeah, thanks.” 

Later, he and Ty drove into work in his buddy’s beat up Ford Bronco, both dressed in their usual work “uniform” of jeans, t-shirts, and work boots. No more Donald Duck, but he’d had to wear a pair of boxer briefs, as the rest of his underwear was in the machine. He hated those things; made his balls feel like they were in prison. So he was uncomfortable all day, constantly rearranging himself. Fun. 

Work started out normally—he was at home base today crafting a custom bookshelf for yet another richie customer—but, alas, the day was not to stay that way. Big Bill, Ty, and the rest of his coworkers knew not to make a fuss over his birthday, but that hadn’t stopped Natalie from snooping through his employee folder at some point and attempting to corner him in the warehouse to give him a “present”—a lap dance. Or, truly, a whacked approximation of one. While he was in the middle of work, no less. Big Bill walked into the work area at that precise moment and canned her, saving John from having to tell the man himself. He was no stooge, but the chick was getting annoying, preventing him from getting shit done, and didn’t seem to have an understanding of the word no. 

Some of his coworkers lamented her loss—“Dude, she’s desperate for it, why don’t you take what she’s offering?”—but it wasn’t John’s problem that they needed to get laid. 

After work, Bender was just going to take a Greyhound home, but Ty insisted on driving him for some reason. 

That reason became evident as soon as they walked in the door, the previously darkened apartment was flooded in light, and a dozen or so people yelled out “SURPRISE!” simultaneously. 

Bender opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Like a fucking dying fish. “Holy shit.”

Claire wandered out from behind the couch in one of those flowery maternity dresses she’d caved and bought, smiling widely, and kissed his cheek. At least it was shaven this time. “Happy birthday! I know this day is not your favorite, but you’ve been such a help while I’ve been a pregnant spazoid, I wanted to do something for you.”

'Aw, damnit'. There was the “Oh, Gorsh” sentiment again. He could feel his lips stretching into a smile; it couldn’t be controlled. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her luscious lips. “Thanks, Princess.” 

Beside him, Ty grinned. “It was my job to get your ass here. Make sure you didn’t spend the whole day at the Bull.” 

John glared at his old friend with annoyance. He wasn’t planning on spending all day at the bar. Just…an hour or two. Maybe. 

Ty’s girlfriend emerged from the kitchen bearing a plate of chocolate sheet cake. John raised an eyebrow and turned to Claire. “Did you make that?”

She cringed. “Well, I, uh, frosted it?”

“I did,” Megan corrected in her scratchy voice. “Took me all day. And as you can see, Birthday Boy, your kitchen’s not burned to a crisp.”

“Ah,” John acknowledged. Dang, that looked like a nice cake. “So *that’s* why you’re here.”

Andy climbed over the coffee table and slapped him on the arm. “Everyone needs a reason to visit you.”

John flipped him off with a cheerful grin. 

Later, after a honkin’ slice of cake—his had a doodle of Pete on it; he jokingly asked Claire, who’d piped it, if the design was meant to be his pet snake or his trouser snake, to which she whapped him in the chest—complete with enough candles to burn the entirety of Housely down and a Guns N’ Roses concert on Pay-Per-View, John opened gifts. Generally, he avoided receiving presents, mostly because he was horrible at giving them himself (once, he’d gotten Claire a pair of hand weights, she thought he was calling her fat, and she didn’t talk to him for two days), but he knew his girlfriend had gone to some trouble to arrange this, make sure that everyone was in town and their schedules clear for the occasion, so he’d sit there looking like a doof while he tore into wrapping paper like an overeager kid. 

From Brian and Jackie, a couple of CDs for the player Rich had recently brought home from Korea. The Iron Maiden one was put in the player right away, on blast, so as to annoy Night of the Lowing Dead next door. From Stubbie—what else—concert tickets to see the new Poison show at Lincoln Hall. 

Sporto bought him a Roger Rabbit standee, which would go nicely with his Jessica one. Claire rolled her eyes and cringed when he brought it up from his car. “Did you have to get him that?”

Allison wound a friendly arm around her shoulders. “Put it this way. At least it’s not another half-naked lady ‘toon.” 

This gave Bender the idea to search high and low for a Betty Boop standee. 

Al presented him with a painting she’d done of Pete about to consume a mouse. That, too, caused Claire to cringe. John loved it and planned to hang it in the foyer. And, from both her and the Sport, a black “Daddy’s little rocker” onesie for the kid. Claire splayed it over her growing stomach. 

From Sporto’s older brother, the new Donkey Kong for his NES. Allison’s sister bought him a Black Sabbath t-shirt; John threw it on as he opened the rest of the presents. Josh bought him a Bart Simpson plush doll; pull the string at its back and it crowed “Eat my shorts!” Ty and Megan got him 'A New Hope', 'The Empire Strikes Back', and 'Return of the Jedi' on VHS, some special collectors’ edition, and a phone shaped like a hamburger. 

Last but not least, his Princess bestowed upon him a spankin’ new stereo for his car. Complete with tape deck, CD changer, AM/FM radio with preset options, and a monster sound system. “Shit, Claire! Where the hell did you get this?” he goggled upon opening it. 

Her answering smirk was coy. “I have my ways.”

“She bought it at Radio Shack,” Allison deadpanned, and Claire threw her a scowl. 

She also presented him with a new wallet. Crafted entirely of leather, the piece was black, like his old one, but unlike his old one, it had his name stitched into the front in gold and wasn’t made of cheap plastic. 

“You needed a new one,” Cherry explained as he studied all the individual pockets. It looked expensive as hell and also kind of boss. “You’ve had that ratty thing for eight years; it’s falling apart.”

A wallet-sized picture of the two of them taken at a Van Halen concert a few years ago was already in there. In it, she was dressed in a midriff-bearing gray t-shirt, a purple miniskirt made of some sort of shiny material, knee-high boots, and a headband. He distinctly remembered being *quite* distracted during that show. 

When he kissed her, Andy drawled somewhere over his shoulder “Aren’t puppies cute?!” and John flipped him off again. 

In his ear, Claire whispered, “I have another gift for you, but I can’t give it to you in front of everyone.” And he was downright giddy. 

That “other gift” turned out to be his redheaded goddess in a black and pink negligee, cut very low in the, ah, boobular area. He requested that she keep it on for the remainder of their nightly activities. 

“Damn, Princess,” he panted when she climbed off him and crawled under the covers. 'Jesus Christ Almighty, I think I pulled a muscle'. 

Claire giggled. “Well, it’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

John lay back with his hands behind his head as she scooched closer to pillow her head on his naked chest. “I wish my birthday was every day, now.”

Claire laughed and lightly nudged his side with her knee. 

'Yep. Not a bad birthday at all.'

'At fucking all.'

Wincing, he pushed out of bed and began limping to the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” she asked sleepily. 

“Gotta muscle pull.” 

“Where?”

John glanced at her over his shoulder, looking perfectly, sexily disheveled. Ginger hair a bird’s nest. Pillowy lips red and swollen. High color in her ivory cheeks. Sheets wrapped around her sweaty body. It was enough to get him hard all over again. He grinned. “Cherry, you don’t wanna know.”

Claire threw a pillow at him.  
**

Under the covers, Claire slept. And, as she slept, she dreamed. In her subconscious, her crazy pregnant lady psyche conjured up a recollection of her and John’s “first time”. 

A first time for her, absolutely. And, in a way, a first time for him, too.

Their First Time was marked at about seven months into their relationship, just as senior year was starting. John had allowed Claire to take the reins in that area of their relationship. The last thing he wanted to do, he’d told her once whilst they were getting hot and heavy in the back of his beat up Toyota, was pressure her or make her feel like she had to do something that she wasn’t quite ready for. He uttered this bashfully, quietly, as she was in the midst of shakily removing her top. 

Claire had convinced herself that she was ready that night; John, somehow, knew she was not and told her unequivocally that she was not going to lose her virginity in the backseat of a rusty Toyota parked in a lot outside of an Office Max as Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” blared in the background. 

Two months later, she realized she was truly ready. And, as with most things, Claire used that epiphany as an opportunity to shop. 

She planned the whole thing. First, she and Allison raided the racks at Victoria’s Secret. Her friend had already been “riding the hobby horse” with Andy for a good while now, and she wanted to surprise him for her birthday with a new black negligee and thigh-high stockings. Claire wrinkled her nose as she sifted through the racks. She loved Ally and Andy, but she totally did not want to picture them…doing what they did. 

She ended up purchasing a lacy red bra and panties set. John liked her in red. 

Claire also bought some new sheets—100% Egyptian cotton, 700 thread count. They didn’t have red, so she chose simple white. A worthy expense. 

She also picked up a box of condoms. Just in case.

The night before, she changed the sheets and spent a ludicrous amount of time waxing in the en suite. Everything. She waxed everything. Almost everything. She wasn’t going to shave her head or go without eyebrows. But her legs, her arms, the embarrassing peach fuzz beneath her nose, even her bikini line. It was the first time she’d ever waxed there, and it was not an experience she was eager to make part of her routine.

On the morning of, Claire, dressed immaculately as usual in a white mid-length skirt and ruffled pink blouse, painted a content smile on her face and kissed her parents goodbye. Richard and Nora were to be gone all weekend, Friday through Monday, at some charity golf event in Springfield. Everyone who was anyone was going to be there—Madonna and Sean, Don and Melanie, Christie and Billy, Mike and Robin, Goldie and Kurt. The Standishes needed to make an appearance. 

Meaning Claire had the house alone for the entire weekend. The only staff to be present was the gardener on Saturday. 

'Perfect,' she thought after she lit the fourth candle on her white oak bedside table. The whole room smelled divinely of vanilla. She tested the lighting, then settled on the dim option. She stood over the bed, straightening invisible wrinkles here and there. She even considered sprinkling rose petals across her duvet, but figured that would look too cheesy.

All the prep finished, she waited. And tried not to freak out that she was about to lose her V-card. A mixture of nervous and excited, Claire sat waiting in the front parlor and played with her hands. 

Then, she heard the roar of the ancient motorcycle John sometimes picked her up in, and her pulse fluttered beneath her skin. 

When she answered the door in the pink terrycloth robe she’d changed into, John originally thought she was sick and joked that school would shut down today in mourning. But then, she led him inside, and she practically watched as the lightbulb clicked over his head. 

“You sure?” His tone was quiet. Humble, almost. His gloveless hands massaged her hips through the material of her robe. 

She nodded, held out a hand, and led him upstairs. 

Standing in the middle of her expansive bedroom, though, Claire felt the awkwardness sink in. Clawing at her consciousness. Forcing her to ask questions about herself she didn’t particularly want to confront. Did her hips look fat in the expensive bra and panties set? Should she have also bought the red silk stockings that went with it, or was that too…porny? Did John feel ridiculous in her huge, immaculate bedroom with its plush pink carpeting, antique Tiffany lamps, lofty canopy bed, and French doors that opened to a circular stone balcony? 

What if she did something…wrong? *Could* she do anything wrong? She hadn’t put on a lot of makeup this morning, knowing it was all destined to come off anyway; maybe she should’ve worn more? Did her hair look okay? Would John notice the weird heart-shaped beauty mark on her upper thigh? 

He was standing there a few paces away, awkward as well, rubbing the back of his neck. So, in a bold, split-second decision, Claire threw off the robe and let it pool at her feet. 

John’s eyes grew as wide as flying saucers. 

“Wh—where did you get that?” he breathed as he came toward her. 

Claire bit her lip, bashful in spite of her impulsiveness, and replied softly, “Victoria’s Secret.”

John grinned, his arms winding around her waist. “That is some secret, Princess.” 

She laughed, a bit of nervous tension easing from her shoulders, and he pressed his own smile against hers. As always, her knees went weak and her toes curled amid the thick carpeting. 

Soon, he was kissing her everywhere. Her cheeks. Her chin. The column of her neck. Her collarbone. And touching her in places she’d only permitted him *to* touch as he’d once described. Over the bra, under the blouse, over the panties. But it had been seven months, and, as a guy, he’d been remarkably patient. It was sort of an unspoken agreement between them—she allowed him to declare labels, and he allowed her to dictate how fast they moved. 

And she had done. And he had done. They went public when he was comfortable with going public. Now, she was comfortable with…other things. 

And ready. Her virginity would be his and his only.

John’s arms wound around her back to the clasp of her lacy bra. He met her eyes again, silently asking if this was okay, and she nodded without hesitation. 

“I hate these things,” he mumbled whilst his fingers fumbled with the clasp. 

Again, Claire giggled, easing some more tension from her body. “I got it,” she assured, reaching around herself to undo the foiling clasp. When it clicked open, a bit of the anxiousness returned. Claire haltingly slid the straps down her arms and let the garment plop to the floor. 

John’s intense stare instantly swept downwards. And fixed there. 

It was the first time he was seeing her naked chest. A moment passed, the only sound that of his audible swallow, and Claire felt the timidity returning. Her arms twitched involuntarily and formed an X to cover herself.

“Don’t” was his mild command, and Claire’s arms lowered. Another beat, and he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “You’re fucking perfect” and kissed her again, more deeply this time. 

He picked her up like she weighed nothing and very carefully lay her on the bed. The new sheets felt divine against her exposed skin. 

She’d forgotten to move Mr. Panda—her old childhood stuffed animal that she slept with every night—elsewhere, though. Its glass eyes were looking at her as if in judgment.

“Uh, John?” she said as he was kissing down to the valley between her breasts. 

“Hmm?” he mumbled—then, with some effort, it appeared, raised his head. 

“Think we can put Mr. Panda somewhere…else?” Claire held up the offending plush toy in question. 

John paused, then chuckled. “Why? Maybe he wants to watch!”

Claire bopped him over the head with the stuffed animal. He laughed, plucked Mr. Panda from her hands, then slid off the bed to place him inside Claire’s enormous walk-in closet. 

“There,” he said, walking back to the bed. “Mr. Panda’s innocent eyes are saved from gazing upon his owner in flagrante delicto.” 

Claire couldn’t help but dissolve into a bout of belly laughter as he ventured back to the bed and hovered over her prone body, grinning. 

Then, he was kissing down her chest to the valley between her breasts, and her laughter turned to moans and sighs. She gripped his hair—'We’ve never done *that* before'—then pulled him up to kiss her lips. 

Off came his white t-shirt. Now naked from the chest up, he settled between her bent legs whilst he kissed her neck and moved against her.

Claire gasped and gripped the back of his neck, automatically crossing her legs behind him as he ground into her. They’d done this before, quite a few times. But it felt different now, clothed as she was in only the scrap of lace covering her most private areas. More intimate. 

He gazed down at her face. Watching, as he always did. Then bent down to kiss her, with teeth and tongue and hands everywhere, leaving goosebumps puckering wherever his fingers brushed her skin. 

Lifting his head momentarily, he paused for an instant, leaving Claire frustrated, and leaned over to blow out the vanilla-scented candles on the bedside table. 

Claire looked up at John questioningly. Returning to her, he explained, “With my luck, I’ll knock one of those things over and burn your entire humongous house down.” 

She giggled again and wrapped her arms around his neck. It was as he was splayed against her, in between her legs, kissing her neck, that the earlier boldness returned. He gripped her back and they both half rose, kissing each other senseless, all hands wandering and teeth clashing and tongues dueling. Claire had never felt this…wanton. This brazen. 

She kind of liked it. A lot. 

Claire reached for the button on his jeans, and he shucked them off. Lips pressing against her skin, over her chest, between her breasts, against her stomach, down, down, down…

Sitting up on her elbows, she watched him slide down her body and off the bed. “John? What are you gonna do?” 

John gazed up at her. There was fire in his brown eyes. His slow smirk was downright wolfish. “You’ll see. Lie back.”

A bit hesitant, she did so. Felt his lips kiss up one leg and down the other. He hooked his thumbs under the triangle of red lace and skimmed the fabric down. Claire raised her hips to assist him. 

Lips pressing up her left inner thigh. Hands gently massaging the right one. And then…

Claire’s eyes shot open. He draped her legs over his shoulders and she gripped the back of his head, fingers buried in his hair like he was suddenly going to pull away and stop but she knew he wasn’t going to stop and she was writhing and whimpering and it wasn’t long before she was seeing explosions before her closed eyes and screaming his name and boy, was she glad no one was home. 

'We…we’ve definitely never done *that*', she thought, panting, as he slid up her prone form again. 

John smirked down at her, looking very satisfied with himself—;'Naturally'—then leaned down to kiss her deeply once before departing for his shucked jeans. 

Claire watched, again on her elbows, while he dug out that same black wallet, searching through its contents. A wrinkle appeared in the middle of his forehead that deepened as the seconds passed. “Damnit! I don’t have a fucking condom.”

Claire rose to her knees, reached into the bedside drawer, and pulled out the box of Trojans. Wordlessly, she tossed him the orange box. 

The frustrated wrinkle disappeared. He looked impressed. “Oh, thank God. Should I even ask why the hell you have these?”

Her naked shoulders bobbed. “Always be prepared. That’s what we learned in health, right?”

John was opening the box and plucking out a foil packet. “Don’t know. I was asleep.” 

Claire snorted and blinked her eyes heavenward as she lay back down. 

He crawled up her frame again, and Claire shivered. She concluded that there was no other sensation like someone else’s warm, naked body on top of your own. 

John threw the covers over them then hovered above her, one hand on either side of her face on the pillow. There was no more laughter or teenage silliness. His stare, his expression, was concentrated. One hand lifted off the bed to gently, almost—dare she say it—tenderly palm her cheek. Claire had never seen him look so…open. Vulnerable. 

“I’m going to try really hard not to hurt you,” he swore, pushing her hair out of her face. 

She nodded, not breaking their mutual gaze. “I trust you.” 

His answering smile bloomed across his lips, all straight white teeth and sparkling eyes. Claire wondered if anyone had ever told John they trusted him before. 

Then, he began to push into her, and Claire shut her eyes tightly, wincing. He came up against the barrier of her virginity, which he broke through with a thrust, and she cried out. 

It hurt. It really hurt. But she knew it was supposed to. All her friends had said it would. 

“Ow. Ow!” she squeaked, unconsciously voicing the pain. 

“Fuck,” John muttered; he braced his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry. I’m *sorry*.” And kissed her everywhere—her eyes, her cheeks, her jaw. 

Claire buried her hands in his thick, dark hair, still grimacing. “It’s…okay. Just give me a minute.” 

He waited suspended above her and when she gave the nod, that she was okay now, he asked her if she was totally sure she was and when she nodded again, only when she nodded again, he began to move. At first it hurt more and she felt unsure of herself but it wasn’t long before that pain started to feel good, really good, and she was climbing higher and higher and he was kissing her and kissing her and entwining her fingers with his and whispering nonsense in her ear and soon, the explosions returned. 

Afterward, he slowly lowered himself on top of her, sweating and panting, then rolled over with effort, removed the condom, and threw it in the wastebasket beside her bed. When his head hit the pillow beside hers, both of them winded, they looked at each other and laughed. 

“You all right?” he huffed as she drew closer to him. An arm wound around her waist. 

Claire nodded sleepily. She was exhausted and spent and tingly and every extremity surged with delightful aftershocks. “Mhmm. Better than all right.”

John’s responding smirk was lazy and entirely proud of himself. Claire would’ve shaken her head if she had the strength. “Do you want a cigar?” she drawled, her eyes fluttering closed. 

His chest vibrated beneath her cheek as he chuckled. “Nah. Could do with a joint, though.” 

There was a beat of silence, then she felt the sheet above them tent, and she opened her eyes to glimpse John studying…something with an intense look on his face. 

“What?” Claire asked tiredly. All she wanted was to fall into Dreamland. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

Claire’s exhausted eyes opened wider, she blinked a few times, then followed his gaze to the slight red splotch on the sheets. 'Crap. I’ll have to keep this from Greta.'

Greta, the Standishes’ maid, would go off in a stream of German and lock her in the closet. 

“Oh,” she said, plopping her head back on the pillow. “I’ll clean it up later…” Starting to drift off again.

But John was wide awake. “I made you *bleed*? Jesus Christ, I made you bleed!” 

He sounded truly distraught. Claire’s heavy eyelids popped open. He was still staring at the little red splotch marring her 300 dollar sheets. 

Sitting up, she took her face in his hands. “Hey, it’s okay.”

John was shaking his head. “But—“ 

“That’s what happens during a girl’s first time. It hurts and it bleeds,” Claire explained, a bit perplexed at his reaction. “It’s totally normal.” 

His visible distress only lessened somewhat. Sighing, he lay back down beside her. “I never…”

“What?” She gazed at him, urging him to continue. 

Another deep exhalation. “I never wanted to hurt you like that.”

It was as honest and transparent as he’d ever been, as Claire had ever seen him. John had not wanted to make her bleed. Like his father made him bleed. All the time. 

Inching closer on the pillow, their heads nearly touching, she kissed him, long, slow, and soft. Then smiled. “It’s okay, really. I promise. Haven’t you done this, like, a hundred times?”

A light dusting of crimson actually appeared in John’s cheeks. “Well, yeah, but…never with a virgin. Until you.”

Claire’s beam widened. 'Oh, so *that’s* it!' “So…I guess that means I popped your cherry…cherry?”

John tarried a beat, then chortled. “I suppose you can say that. Cherry.” 

Her smile was nearly cracking her face in two. “But I’m not a cherry anymore.”

John snaked an arm around her back. “You’ll always be Cherry to me.” 

Claire tittered and shifted to rest her head on his chest. His arm moved to encircle her waist, span her back. 

As she was falling back into Dreamland, she felt him kiss the top of her hair. And, for the first time, she thought she heard him say those three words she’d been wanting him to say for some time but of course hadn’t pressured him to. 

“I love you, too,” she mumbled as she drifted off to sleep.  
**  
In the present, Claire woke up. Smiling languidly, visions from her dream-memory dancing before her vision, she climbed out of bed and followed John into the bathroom, where he was brushing his teeth. Still wearing the grin, she threw her arms around his waist and rested her head on his back. 

“Well, good morning to you, too, Princess,” he mumbled, mouth full of toothpaste. He spat into the sink, wiped his mouth, and said, “What’s the occasion?” 

“You can be a jackass, but I love you anyway.”

A smile bloomed on his face in the medicine cabinet mirror. “Ditto. On both counts.” 

Claire rolled her eyes and smacked his butt.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I watched a circa-1987 pregnancy yoga video for the first part. They did the downward dog position back then. I am unsure if it's still considered safe, but in the 80s the general mentality was "fuck it" so...
> 
> Note 2: Thirsty Natalie is gone but not forgotten.
> 
> Note 3: I had that same Bart Simpson doll. My dad got it for me when I was five. He had no qualms about letting me watch The Simpsons, and South Park later. My mom was forever over his shoulder all "Why are you letting her watch that crap?!" 
> 
> Note 4: Ah, all those insecurities that run through your head when you lose your V. I hate when shows and movies depict the First Time like it's this dramatic, seamless thing. In reality, it's a bit awkward (or a lot awkward), especially for teenagers. There are starts and stops, a bit of uncertain laughter and overall dumbassery. It's not the culmination of two desperate people, not usually anyway.


	16. Chapter 15: The (B)itches of Eastlake

Chapter 15: The (B)itches of Eastlake

“What do you think of Bielecki?”

“W—well, I mean, um, he—he’s a good player?”

Seated ramrod straight in his favorite suede Laz-E-Boy, Mr. Takahari rolled his eyes behind his wire-rim glasses. “Mathematically speaking, Mr. Johnson.”

Brian had to physically stop the beam from overtaking his entire face. Mr. Takahari had never addressed him by his actual name before! Well, okay, granted, it was his last name, but a name was a name! Usually, he was either “that boy” or, that day the man tried to buy him off, “hey you, come here”. 

“Oh! Well.” Brian reached for the glass of Sprite Mrs. Takahari had been so kind to pour for him and set on the coffee table on top of a Cubs logo coaster. “I know, technically, um, he’s not the top pitcher for the team, but his technique is a bit more, um—what’s the word I’m looking for? Practiced? Honed? More honed than Maddux’s. Probably why his Wins to Losses Ratio is a bit higher so far this season.” 

Jackie’s father made a “Hm” sound, sipped at his Jack and Coke, and prompted, “Explain.” 

Delighted, Brian continued, “Err, y—you see, Mr. Takahari, when Bielecki pitches, um, his body forms a sort of acute angle, which lends more…more control to the ball. Maddux, on the other hand, is fond of the classic right angle, um, stance. It can be hit or miss. So to speak.”

Mr. Takahari paused, the lip of his glass poised at his mouth. Brian inwardly cringed, hoping that he hadn’t inadvertently said something to set the man off, though he had no idea what that could possibly be. Gratefully, the man just emitted another “Hm” and sipped his drink.

Brian mentally tallied another point to his You Rule/You Suck score. 

Sylvia Takahari sauntered out of the kitchen, a bright smile on her face, clutching a silver serving tray, which she set down on top of the coffee table with a flourish. On the dish were Triscuits overlaid with different kinds of cheeses—brie, camembert, gouda. In one upper corner stood a crystal dish of tropical fruit salad. Brian skewered a piece of passion fruit with a toothpick. 

He’d been dating Jackie for over a year and a half now, and this was really the first time he’d been granted access inside the elusive Takahari home in Lincoln Park. In the past, most of what Brian had glimpsed of the townhouse remained the front steps—and the foyer, once or twice. Sylvia would’ve happily invited him inside, any time, but Brian had never felt comfortable knowing that her husband considered him to be trespassing. 

All that changed today, September 20th, when he drove Jackie in his ancient Oldsmobile home from their date night at the local Cineplex—Brian took her to see James Cameron’s "The Abyss", an under-the-sea sci-fi movie starring Ed Harris; he hoped Cameron made another nautical movie in the near future, he was really good at it!—and Mr. Takahari appeared in the doorway as he was kissing her goodbye on the front porch. Brian had cringed, assuming the man was seconds away from verbally lambasting him or, worse, whipping out that Remington, but, surprising him, Jackie’s father only wiped his glasses and said, “Cubs game. They are playing the Tigers.” And he walked back inside. 

Puzzled, Brian turned to regard Jackie. She only smirked with a twinkle in her eye and gestured inside with her chin. “I think Daddy wants you to follow him.”

Brian’s eyes widened, and he furrowed his brow. “Are you s—sure?” 

“Pretty sure,” she returned as she stepped into the house. “After nearly twenty-two years, I’m almost fluent in Hideo Takahari.”

So, a bit panicky and baffled, he followed his girlfriend inside. It was his first time truly being inside the Takahari home, and, in his opinion, it definitely gave off that moneyed air. Everything gleamed or sparkled, brand new technology—including the just-released Apple Macintosh Portable, the first laptop from Apple Mac; sticker price was 3500 bucks, and Brian would’ve committed regicide for one—mixed with vintage antiques—like the Victorian-era “fainting couch” in the front parlor or a porcelain plate braced atop the mantle stamped with the initials R.M.S. Titanic, a Sotheby’s bid from the recently discovered wreck. The Japanese inspiration, too, was everywhere, from the low-legged furniture to the rice papered walls and doors to the art depicting water lilies and the famous red Shinkyo Bridge in the city of Nikko. 

Elements of Sylvia’s Texan upbringing were also prevalent. Framed beside a grandfather clock was a gigantic jigsaw puzzle of the Lone Star State in all its glory. Cattle prods bearing Sylvia’s family’s brand—the name Lehman encircled with a lasso—leaned against the brick and marble fireplace. Throw pillows hand-stitched portraying Texasisms—“Everything in Texas is big!”, “I’m madder than a wet hen!”, “He’s all hat and no cattle!”—were stacked on either side of the sofa. Draped across the back of the brown leather loveseat was a lovely afghan recreation of the Lone Star Flag, also hand-stitched. Sylvia was big into knitting.

The abode was definitely on the money. The Takaharis weren’t Standish-level rich, but they were doing pretty damn well for themselves. Enough to get into La Madeleine without a reservation, anyway.

Unlike at the Standishes’, though, Brian wasn’t suffused with the feeling that if he committed the crime of touching anything, dangerous, flesh-eating hounds would descend upon him from all corners of the property. This place felt like a home, not a castle. 

Besides, the Takaharis only had a cat. She was lounging in a patch of sun reflected on the floor and glaring catlike at everyone.

Brian watched as Bielecki struck the Tigers’ Randy Bockus out using a curveball. He grinned in triumph. 

Mr. Takahari’s eyebrows quirked over his glasses. “Bielecki may be my new favorite pitcher.” 

Brian inwardly smiled, proud of himself. Even though it wasn’t like he’d pitched the game or anything. 

'I’m doing it! I’m making progress!'

Jackie came up from the den and handed her father a bottle of beer. He smiled his thanks. “Thank you, musume.” 

She replied in Japanese, then sat down beside Brian on that same loveseat, diagonal to the matching brown leather lounge he claimed. Passing him a cream soda, she whispered, “No way would Daddy let you get away with a beer. Sorry.” 

Brian shrugged and gratefully opened the bottle. He wasn’t much for alcohol anyway. Aside from wine coolers. They were delicious, he didn’t care how often Bender and Andy made fun of him for thinking so. “Thanks.” He studied the label, recognizing the Katakana symbols. He really needed to learn Japanese. “Never seen this kind before.”

“Dad picks up a case from the Japanese market on the other side of town. We’re always shopping there; the owner knows my mom by name. We also have black sesame seed ice cream. It’s a real kick eating black ice cream, let me tell you.”

Now, he really wanted to try some of that black ice cream. 

Beside him in his favorite chair, Mr. Takahari grunted and gestured to the blaring television. “Bottom of the 7th. What is your opinion about Lancaster?”

Les Lancaster was at bat. Brian furrowed his brow. “W—well, since, um, he’s more of a pitcher than a hitter, he retains the stance of a pitcher in the strike box. You can see that he’s in a sort of vertex. But his grip is, um, a bit loose. On the bat.”

In the grand tradition, “nerds” were always depicted the same way—very intelligent, horrible dressers, and, most specifically, having bad eyesight that required the necessity of eyeglasses. Brian Johnson embodied two out of three. He was intelligent (if he did say so himself), he knew he dressed ridiculously (mostly thanks to Claire), but his eyesight was and had always been perfect. More than perfect. Years earlier, his optometrist had declared that a young Brian’s vision was better than 20/20. As such, he often caught details in everyday scenes that many missed. 

As he predicted, Lancaster’s bat went flying backwards as he swung, and he was eventually struck out. Mr. Takahari grunted and sipped at his beer. “What about Smith?”

Dwight Smith had a .275 batting average and a 226 RBI. Brian instantly glimpsed his baseball card in his mind. “Um, well, you can see, Dwight is bent really low to obscure the strike zone. He is almost in a pure reflex angle. The pitcher—“

“Frank Tanana.”

Brian nodded. “Tanana looks like he’s getting quite frustrated.”

Indeed, Tanana appeared about ready to throw down. 

The pitch came, and Smith hit it out of the park. Mr. Takahari stood up and whooped. 

It was the first time he’d ever seen the man look so…animated.

To Brian’s left, Jackie rose and gently bid her father sit down. “Daddy, calm down. Remember, your angina.” 

The man scoffed in annoyance but did as requested. Jackie retook her seat. 

Mr. Takahari nodded once more toward the screen. “What about Webster? What do you think?”

Mitch Webster. Batting average: .263. RBI: 342. “W—well—“ 

Jackie’s soft voice jumped in. “Oh, come on, Daddy! Just let him watch the game.”

Brian smiled between them both. “It’s fine. I, um, like watching like this. Analyzing the players and stuff.”

Mr. Takahari nodded once. “You see, musume? He likes it.”

Jackie pursed her lips. She did not totally buy that, that was obvious. But Brian was okay with being Mr. Takahari’s baseball analyst. At least he was acknowledging his presence. 

After the game, whilst he and Jackie were discussing the latest world events in the news—namely, that of the resignation of South African president, Pieter W. Botha and the swearing in of Frederick de Klerk as acting president and what it meant for the terrible Apartheid situation in the country—Sylvia came up from the basement carrying a familiar white, rectangular box. She was beaming. 

“How’s about we all play a game of Monopoly?” she suggested as she set the game down on the coffee table.

Jackie brightened and began setting it up. From his chair, Mr. Takahari was smoking a cigar. “I don’t know, Sylvia. I think I’m going to go to bed early…” 

Sylvia Takahari folded her hands on her hips. “Oh, come on, Hideo! You used to love game night! Come on, I’ll let ya be the banker.” 

Brian hid his grin by picking out his game piece. 'Sylvia is a stubborn woman.' 

Mr. Takahari sighed and then joined them around the coffee table. “Okay. But I get to be the racecar.” 

Inwardly, Brian was doing his happy dance  
***.

Wednesday, October 11th. Claire was about five or six weeks away from her due date, and she felt as big as a house. More than a house. Like, the Buellers’ abode down the street from her childhood home. 

For the hundredth time, Claire gazed at herself in the mirror tacked against the north wall. 'Is this really what I’m wearing?' For most of her pregnancy, Claire had resisted giving in and buying maternity clothes. She had plenty of voluminous, empire-waist dresses and a few pairs of cute overalls; she’d just wear those when necessary. But, alas, as her pregnancy progressed and her stomach suddenly ballooned to the size of a bowling ball and, mortifyingly, her bellybutton popped, leaving her with this sort of weird pointy nub poking through the material of her clothes, she found that her everyday apparel, voluminous or not, was not enough to appease her growing abdomen—as well as the baby that lay inside of it, kicking up a storm as it was wont to. 

She—or he, but probably she—was silent right now, likely asleep in her womb, but Untitled Standish-Bender Project had been treating her uterus like a punching bag earlier. 

And now, she gazed upon her person in the full-length mirror and sighed. 'I look like an overstuffed chintz couch.' 

Maternity clothes weren’t exactly known for being chic. Definitely not to the level that Claire Standish was used to. The best she could find was this odd Laura Ashley…thing, a pleated, scalloped dress with wide bell sleeves and a deep v-neck that hemmed at the ankle. The pattern was atrocious—large blooms of purple, pink, and white hydrangeas over a field of navy blue. Add one of those headbands, and she’d look directly zapped out of Woodstock. 

Claire frowned and turned to examine her side. 'I am *never* going to lose this weight.' 

Her gaze narrowed on John, who was pulling his jeans on. 

'And it’s all his fault'. 

Claire felt a dark mood coming on. At this point, she knew when it was happening; she could pinpoint the mood-switch. Idly, she poked at her own floral-clothed stomach. 

In response, the baby gave a little kick, then a much mightier kick, and Claire’s ominous mood melted away. A smile bloomed across her face. She would never get over feeling her child kick her inside her womb. It was kind of strange but amazingly so. Like a pull from deep inside. 

Claire poked her stomach again, and the baby answered readily. Her grin widened. “Can you hear me?” she wondered, head craned down at her bump. 

The sounds of John getting ready—fabric against fabric, belt buckle clicking, boots being removed from the closet—paused, and she could feel him gawking at her. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

She didn’t bother meeting his stare and instead kept looking down her stomach. “I was talking to the baby.”

The getting-ready noises continued. “You know, Claire, he’s not here yet.” His voice, of course, was dripping with sarcasm. 

“I know that, jerk,” she scoffed, throwing the red and white plaid shirt that topped the recent batch of laundry at him. He looked at it, shrugged, and pulled it on. “Dr. Devers says the baby can hear her mother. Maybe. While she’s in there.” 

John, sitting on the edge of the bed, began pulling on his tan work boots. “Then chatter away, Princess. Hey, in fact, talk to him in French. Maybe his first word will be merde.” 

Claire snorted in spite of herself. As expected, the only French John knew were the curse words. He made a habit of collecting cusses in different languages. He could say 'shit' in French, German, Italian, Spanish, Swedish, and Russian. 

His shoes tied, he rose to a standing position. “You ready?”

Claire sighed. She really didn’t want to do this. But she was expected. “As I’ll ever be.”

John pursed his lips and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Chin up, Queenie. It’ll be over before you know it.” And kissed her temple. 

'Yeah, easy for you to say. *You’re* not facing her today.'

Which was why John was in such a good mood. And Claire was decidedly…not. In fact, one could even call her mood dark, gloomy. Anxious. Her body was a jumbling ball of dread. 

For today, she was going to have to meet her mother. Face to face. For the first time since she’d confessed her pregnancy to her shocked parents at La Madeleine. 

Claire and Nora had spoken on the phone since then a few times, stilted and awkward conversations though they were—except for the ones that ended in Claire slamming the phone onto its hook in sheer aggravation at her mother’s insistence that she not have a baby with “that boy”. 

Though she had spoken with her father a few times at any one of his offices—at least the ones in Chicago—mainly to show him any new sonogram printouts, she’d steadfastly avoided returning home to Shermer and facing her mother’s cool disapproval. She wasn’t *scared* of her or anything—after nearly twenty-two years, Claire was over her mother’s snobbish theatrics—but Nora’s constant passive-aggressive remarks mixed with the occasional shrieking when she failed to get her way left Claire with a pounding migraine.

Ugh. She was so not looking forward to this. Truly, a root canal would be more preferable.

'At least Ally will be there.'

Technically, the Reynolds of Baron Drive were Eastlake patrons, though Claire did not know why they paid the exorbitant price of membership when they were rarely there to begin with. According to Allison, Joseph and Lenore were scarcely even at their own home. They had retired early, Joseph Reynolds leaving his law practice in the hands of his other name partners and Lenore giving up doctoring in order to travel. 

“They go everywhere,” Ally had said, jeering. “After El bagged on their plans for Stanford and superstardom, they retired, packed their bags, and decided to ‘concentrate on ourselves, for once’. They’re away more than they’re not away.”

But today, Lenore would be at Eastlake, where Claire was to meet her own mother, to discuss Ally’s upcoming nuptials. Allison was looking forward to it about as much as Claire was. 

Namely, on the phone last night, they’d talked about skipping out entirely and grabbing a movie. “Or a nice back alley kidney transplant,” Allison added dryly. “That would be preferable to spending any amount of time with Lenore Reynolds.”

“At least you’ll have your sister,” Claire complained; she could hear the whine in her own voice. “I’ll have to face my mother alone.”

“Bender won’t be there with you?”

Claire scoff-snorted. “No, he has to work. I swear, he’s never been happier to have to go to Lake Forest.”

Indeed, she could hear him singing “Hit the Road, Jack” in the shower, replacing “No more, no more, no more, no more” with “Nor-a, Nor-a, Nor-a, Nor-a”. 

That was why, the next morning, when John asked her if she was ready, yet again, Claire whined. And pouted. Purposely made her eyes really big. “Do I have to go?” 

John pursed his lips, unmoved. 'Damn, the pout usually works.' “Yes, you *have* to go. You know if you don’t, your ma will just keep calling and calling and fucking calling until I jump out the window.” A pause. “Which would probably incentivize her to keep at it. So, for both of our sakes, Cherry—go, go, go.” 

Claire huffed, grabbed her purple quilted Ralph Lauren cross-body bag, and followed him out the door. 

Mrs. Lowing—or Ol’ Low-and-Grout, as John called her—their elderly neighbor, was reaching down to grab the newspaper, hair still in large pink curlers, clad in that same beige nightgown and long red robe she favored, when they stepped out into the corridor. 

She tried to hurry past like she hadn’t seen her, but the woman still had keen senses despite being, as John put it, “older than the Lincoln penny”. “Oh, Claire, dear,” she said in her best honey-sans-bees voice. 

Claire cringed and turned around, a beam painted on her face. “Good morning, Mrs. Lowing.”

“Yes, good morning, Mrs. L.! How are ya?” Beside her, John’s lips were twisted as he tried not to laugh at the transparent false geniality on Claire’s face. 

Transparent to *him*, anyway. Since he could read her like a book and all.

Their neighbor, on the other hand, remained in the dark. The sole acknowledgement of his presence on her part was a cold glare in his direction. “How are you feeling? If you want, I can make you another of those shakes.”

Claire nearly bit her tongue to keep from gagging. Two weeks previous, Mrs. Lowing dropped off a pint of this weird greenish-purple goop that she swore would take away the nausea, which she was still having, albeit not as often. Skeptically, she tried a glass, and, lo and behold, it’d had the opposite effect. Down the trash compactor the rest went. 

Shifting in her flats, the memory bringing back the taste of bile, Claire replied, “No, thank you, Mrs. Lowing. Um, my nausea’s gone? It’s gone.”

It was not, but lying was more preferable to scarfing down that witch’s brew. There was *eggplant* in it.

Mrs. Lowing nodded sagely. “I knew that stuff would do the trick! My dear grandmother’s recipe, you know.”

'Please get me out of this conversation.' Mrs. Lowing’s elitism made Nora’s seem quaint by comparison. She knew the old woman only “liked” her because of who her family was, she wasn’t stupid. 

John encircled her wrist. “Sorry, Mrs. L., but we gotta get going. Claire has an important date with her mommy at Eastlake.” 

Mrs. Lowing just glared at him again, then smiled at Claire. “Tell your mother I said hello!” 

'Yeah, that’ll happen.'

In her Audi—they were taking her car because there was no way the guards at Eastlake would allow a five-year-old Trans-Am inside their gates—she regarded John as he climbed behind the wheel with narrowed eyes. “Why’d you tell her that?  
”  
John fiddled with the stereo until he found a station he liked. “Afraid the old bat is gonna follow you to the country club, Queenie? Maybe she’s in wuv with you. Kinky Mrs. L. has a thing for the young ladies.” 

Claire leaned her head back against the headrest. 

Twenty minutes later, at the Eastlake grounds, Claire showed the skeptical guards her member pass after they stared doubtfully at John, who flipped them off as they drove through the wrought iron entrance gates. Once parked in front of the main building—which to Claire had always looked like a wedding cake—he turned to her, arm braced against the shoulder of her seat. She felt petulant. John looked amused. 

“This is where you get off.” Another pause. “Well, no. Not really, because we’ve never—“

Claire pushed his arm off her seat. John chuckled. “Really, Princess, you need to get out now.”

She sighed and wrapped her fingers around the door handle. “Fine. But if I come back in ashes, it’s your fault.” 

“I promise to put you in a lovely urn.”

Shaking her head, she leaned over to kiss him, climbed outside, and watched the Audi speed off. 

Biting back a groan, she ambled—because that was really the only speed she could master at this point—inside the oversized wedding cake. The doorman held open the door for her, her flats echoing against the marble black and white checked foyer. Against one wall, Ally sat slumped in an oversize blue chair, looking entirely uncomfortable all dolled up in a light pink dress, white headband, and pearls. 

However, she was playing a Gameboy, and the music was drawing the attention of annoyed Eastlake members.

Claire started toward her absorbed friend. “Tetris?”

Allison didn’t glance up from her game. She was clutching the gray Gameboy in a sort of arc. “Pac-Man. I’m almost…” Despondent music erupted from the device, and Ally damn near hurled it to the floor in anger. “Damnit! Fucking ghosts. I was this close to beating my personal best.” 

Claire shook her head. “I will never understand what’s with you all and video games. John sits there parked in front of the TV yelling like he’s having a heart attack.”

Her friend’s smirk was classic Ally. “I know. He was at Andy’s the other day. They were playing Madden for hours.” 

The redhead blinked her eyes toward her hairline. So that was where John had disappeared to after work. “John doesn’t even like football!” 

Allison laughed. “No, but he sure likes winning. You should’ve seen how pissed he was after Andy kicked his ass three times in a row.”

Claire didn’t have to see it; she could picture the occasion perfectly in her mind’s eye. Again, very likely why he had come home in a sour mood that night. “Oh, I’m crushed I missed it. Anyway, where’s your sister?” She glanced this way and that but failed to glimpse Eleanor’s shining blonde head, and it was hard to miss her. 

Ally rose from her chair. “She’s coming later. Booked a photoshoot in Chicago that ran late.” A cringe. “Which means time to face the music without a buffer.” 

Glancing down at her watch—five minutes until the appointment time with her mother—Claire smiled and linked arms with Ally. “We’ll go in together. Present a united front. I don’t know about your mom, but when in public, mine at least *tries* not to go off the rails.” 

The brunette shrugged. “Lenore’s like that, too, though she rarely goes off the rails. Instead, she just expresses cool disdain with the occasional biting insult. Actually, our mothers would probably get along great.”

Claire and Allison exchanged a wince, sighed, and walked toward the dining room, arms linked. Allison, though, couldn’t resist getting in one more jab before they entered the lion’s den. “By the way, what are you wearing?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Okay, because it looks like you glued wallpaper to yourself.” 

Inside the opulent dining room, with its white oak paneled walls trimmed with gold leaf, blue Bergère chairs, circular, claw-footed tables draped in white patterned tablecloths, sumptuous Persian rugs, and floor-to-ceiling windows, the quiet clinking of sterling silver utensils against porcelain dishes, the glug of rare imported wines being poured, and soft chatter (“Always beneath a certain octave; a lady never raises her voice in public” Nora used to tell her during cotillion lessons when she was a kid) of members trading pointless anecdotes reached her ears. She’d been coming here for as long as she could remember, and the echoes of Eastlake had not changed. 

She despised this place. So, it was not surprising that her mother would want to meet here. 

Nora was seated at “her” table—the one she and the rest of her minions from hell (aside from Kate McCallister and Katie Bueller, who were nice enough and whom her mother bashed regularly) unofficially reserved in the middle of the room. Her mom, donning a white-bright power suit with large shoulder pads and an even larger neckpiece, was poking at a salad with her fork and gazing at the prix fixe menu. 

Claire exhaled and turned to Ally. “Where’s your mother? Is she here?”

“Not yet. Lenore is notorious for always being fashionably late.”

Worked for her. Now Claire had an excuse to keep her Ally-buffer with her. 

“Hello, Mother.”

Nora placed the menu facedown and began to rise upon hearing her daughter’s greeting, but the faux smile on her face stiffened when she glimpsed Allison at her side. Nora had never really taken to Allison—or any of her friends from the Club—but Ally was, technically, a richie, so she had to pretend. In public, anyway. 

“Claire, I’ve been waiting for—Oh, Allison, dear. Er, will you be joining us?” If Nora smiled any wider, her face would freeze like that. 

'Well. She’s certainly gotten enough Botox injections.'

Ally gave as best she got. “I’m supposed to be meeting my mom, but since she’s not here yet, I figure I should join my bestest friend, Claire, and her lovely mother in the meantime.” 

The waiter came out of nowhere and pulled out chairs for both girls—Claire first because she was so obviously pregnant, she looked as if she were hiding a beach ball under her ridiculous dress—then passed them individual menus. Claire decided to order the skirt steak—she’d been craving red meat a lot lately; John’s progeny *would* demand steak and potatoes—while Allison chose a veggie burger. 

Nora ordered an omelet. And badgered the waiter about her dietary restrictions—“I only eat egg whites; there better not be a single yolk in that omelet. I am also a vegetarian, so there must be only fresh greens for filling. Cheese, too, I suppose.”

Allison and Claire traded glances over the table’s centerpiece as the waiter scampered away with their orders. “Um, Mother? Since when are you a vegetarian?”

The last time she’d dined with her at La Madeleine, her mother had ordered duck l’orange and had no problem devouring it. 

Nora picked the olive from her lunchtime martini and plucked it in her mouth. “Since I read in 'People' that Christie Brinkley is fawning over this new vegetarian diet. It was outlined in the magazine. I figured I’d try it myself.”

Across from her, Allison was very evidently struggling not to laugh. 'Mother can be such a cliché, I swear to God.'

“Anyway,” Nora continued after smoothing a napkin over her lap. She glanced at Allison, then took a breath and leaned across the table to clutch Claire’s hands in her own. 'Oh, this’ll be stunning'. “Claire, darling, I—“ 

That was when a petite woman in a chenille sweater and gray herringbone trousers stopped at their table—a woman who looked distinctly like Allison. Expressionless, she stood over them with her arms crossed. “Oh, Allison. I nearly missed you.”

Ally’s fleeting smile at her mother could barely be described as such. She gestured to an open chair. “Lenore. Please sit.”

Lenore’s placid features became a little un-placid at being addressed as “Lenore” by her daughter. But she didn’t say anything on the matter and haltingly claimed the indicated seat. 

Nora’s face-wattage was heightened a few notches again. Claire rolled her eyes at how transparent she was. “Yes, please, Mrs. Reynolds. Though, I would understand if you and your delightful daughter would prefer to reserve your own table.”

'So ridiculously transparent.'

“It’s fine,” Lenore responded coolly, settling the napkin over herself. “Most of the tables are claimed anyway.” She stared across the table at her daughter. “Allison. You look…actually quite lovely.”

Claire traded a look with her friend. 'What is it with the ladies who lunch crowd?'

Allison sipped her water; Claire could tell she wanted to spit a stream at her mother. “Every now and then, Lenore.”

Lenore Reynolds pulled over their waiter and quietly ordered a Nicoise salad without looking at the menu to see if it was available that day. When he bustled off, she turned to her daughter again. “Let’s cut to the chase. Your intended visited with us. We had been planning a vacation for the week you insist on getting married, but of course we will reschedule. It is expensive, but aren’t most things?”

Nora agreed. “Yes. Most things.” Then, once again, leaned across the table and clasped Claire’s hands in her own. “Darling, I do want to apologize for my behavior at La Madeleine. It was unbecoming of me.”

Like it was the first time. And it very likely wasn’t going to be the last. “It’s fine, Mother.”

Nora smiled and sat back in her seat. “Good. Now, may I ask how far along you are?”

Eleanor Reynolds bustled through the double doors to the dining room, her long blonde hair flying behind her, and pulled out the only other unoccupied seat at the table. “Sorry, my session ran over.”

Lenore blinked and wiped the sides of her mouth. “Oh, are you still doing that?”

The waiter returned and placed their respective dishes before them. Claire’s stomach growled as soon as the tantalizing scents of beef and gravy tickled her nose, and it was all she could not to devour the thing right there like a dog clutching it between its paws. 

“I’m about thirty-one weeks,” she said as she picked up the silverware. 

Nora nodded, dug into her Birkin, and jotted the information down in a small notebook. “Good. I’ll let the agency know.” 

Claire paused, placed either utensil beside her plate, and craned her neck to glare at her mother. “Agency?” 

She did not like Nora’s too-innocent façade one bit. 

At the other end of the table, Eleanor was scoffing. “Yes, Mom, I’m still ‘doing that’.” 

Allison grinned at her sister. 

Nora cleared her throat and again reached across the table to take her daughter’s hands. “I know you did not want to have the abortion, and now I understand, so I took the liberty of contacting an adoption agency for you.” 

Claire slid her hands out from under her mother’s. 'Oh, why am I not surprised? Jesus Christ.' “Mother, for the love of—“ 

Ally was staring at them, her eyes nearly bulging out of her head. Allison was not as used to Nora’s…Nora-ness as Claire was, but even *she* was horrified at how low her own mother was willing to go to prevent her daughter from having a child. Or, namely, a child with someone she did not deem respectable. 

“Now, I’ve already told them that you’re young and just graduated from school—“ 

A tad wobbly, Claire rose from the chair, outraged. “Mother! You had no right to do that!” 

Lenore Reynolds was barely paying attention to the drama unfolding between the two Standishes. Instead, she had removed a small white binder from her own purse and slid it across the table toward her daughter. “These are the plans I have for your nuptials, Allison. This is why I wanted to meet here. Eastlake has a few notable locations, such as the ballroom in the back of the main building, the golf course—there’s a lovely few from the first tee—and the stables, which I am assured will be cleaned out before the actual ceremony.”

Allison pushed her hair back, frustration marring her face. “Andy and I already booked the location, Lenore.” 

Nora, too, shot up from the seat in the same vein as her daughter. Claire never realized that they shared some of the same mannerisms, such as bracing both hands on the nearest flat surface and leaning further forward the angrier they grew. She did not like that either. “You listen here, miss! I am your mother, and you will not—“ 

Claire glared icicles at Nora across the table. She was absolutely certain at this point that she could pin the woman to the wall with only her stare. “I am *not* giving up my baby!” 

Lenore waved one brown-tipped, manicured hand vaguely. “That old church? There’s no reality that exists in which a daughter of mine will be married there.” 

Allison sneered. “’Daughter’? Since when am I your daughter?”

Eleanor was glancing back and forth between her sister and her mother, as if knowing where this was headed. 

Lenore placed her napkin beside her wine glass. “Allison Marie Reynolds, do not address your mother in such a way!”

Nora had one finger pointed at Claire. “I will not have my daughter soiled in respectful circles by birthing the offspring of *that boy*!”

Claire’s eyes narrowed dangerously. 'First, she insults my baby, then my boyfriend in just a few sentences. She’s really racking up the points today.' “'That boy' has a name, Mother.” 

Allison, too, was rising to her feet. “We are not canceling the location, *Mom*. This is *our* wedding, not *yours*.” 

Lenore frowned. She, for once, actually looked emotive. “Do you truly think that your fiancé really wants to get married in that hovel?”

“I think he wants me to be happy, which is more than I can say for you, Lenore.” 

Eleanor dropped her head on the tabletop. 

Nora pushed her hair off her shoulder. “Irrelevant. You will be getting a call from the agency tomorrow—“ 

“Great! So I can tell them my mother is *insane* and not to listen to her incomprehensible blather because there is no way on God’s green Earth that I am giving up this child.” 

“Claire Chastity Demetria, don’t you dare! I refuse to be a grandmother to any child who shares the DNA of that—“ 

Lenore slowly rose to a standing position on her pointed black pumps. At this point, Eleanor was the only one who remained in her seat. “Allison Marie, I will not tolerate that tone. Honestly, young lady, when are you going to grow up?” 

“I’m done!” both Claire and Allison exclaimed at the same time, hurling both their napkins over their barely-touched lunches. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have bothered.” Allison.

“You’re not sorry at all, Mother! I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Good day.” Claire. 

Eleanor was subtly clambering out of her chair. 

To their retreating backs, both mothers called out to their daughters, drawing the attention of the other diners occupying Eastlake’s luxurious dining room. Eleanor held one of the double doors open for a waddling Claire, then let it slam behind her with a loud bang. 

Once outside, Allison, looking annoyed but completely unsurprised, regarded her friend and sister. “Still hungry?”

As if on cue, Claire’s stomach emitted a violent growl. The baby’s desire for beef would not go unheeded. “At this point in my pregnancy, I’m either famished or barfing.” 

Eleanor snickered. “Peggy Sue’s? I think they changed the specials this week.” 

Allison fished her keys out of her purse. “I’ll drive.”  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: The You Lose/You Suck score is a direct shoutout to the latest season of "Stranger Things". Robin had a You Lose/You Suck whiteboard, where she tallied Steve's every attempt to pick up chix. Every tally was under You Suck.
> 
> Note 2: "The Abyss" came out in September of '89. I hope Brian gets his wish that James Cameron makes another "nautical movie" in the future (*insert King of the World gif here*)
> 
> Note 3: The Mackintosh Portable had just come out that year, also. It was capable of playing Pac Man while *also* harboring enough RAM for word processing! Amazing! Emilio Estevez had one. He loved new tech, according to the Fabulous Life of the Brat Pack. 3500 bucks, gall damn! The Titanic wreck, also, had been discovered in '85. Little story: the US Navy hired Robert Ballard, who made the discovery, to hunt down sunken naval ships while telling the world he was to look for the Titanic. Ballard, obsessed with finding the wreck, begged the Navy to let him look for it for realsies. They scoffed and allowed him any extra time from the warship mission to look for it, certain he'd never find it. And lo and behold, he did! That discovery directly influenced James Cameron to make his other "nautical movie" (*Insert You jump, I jump gif here*)
> 
> Note 4: I totally believe Nora would employ the use of hounds, like Mr. Burns.
> 
> Note 5: Musume means "daughter" in Japanese.
> 
> Note 6: Brian has a form of the same thing Shawn Spencer from "Psych" has.
> 
> Note 7: De Klerk was sworn in in '89 and was the beginning of the end for Apartheid. Sidenote: a lot of Nazis fled to South Africa after the war because, I guess, there they could continue to feel superior for being white? 
> 
> Note 8: While maternity clothes have gotten much more chic in recent years, back in the 80s and early 90s...not so much. Most wore Laura Ashley. There's a picture of my mom pregnant with my brother (born in '92) and she's wearing this weird purple sack. She looks miserable, but my mom has no fashion sense anyway. That was probably the last time she wore actual color.
> 
> Note 9: I know Allison is often written living in Bender's neighborhood, but her father *did* drive up to the school in a sleek Caddy, so I figure her family has some money.
> 
> Note 10: Lake Forest is a *real* Richieville. It's one of the wealthiest suburban towns in America.
> 
> Note 11: Nora is the 80s version of a Karen. 
> 
> Note 12: "A lovely view from the first tee" is a line in "Dirty Dancing"/
> 
> Whoa, a lot of notes this chapter. I should make a glossary page.


	17. Chapter 16: All Night Long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys. Hope you had a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! This is a shorter one, but I'll have a longer part after the new year

Chapter 16: All Night Long 

A few months after Big Bill’s initial job offer, and Bender still had not come to a decision. Fortunately, his boss was patient and understood that John had a lot weighing on him at the moment, but Jesus Christ, he had to give the man an answer soon. 

This was how he found himself seated at Claire’s girly vanity with a yellow legal pad before him and a BIC pen clutched in his hand. Scrawled on said pad were the words Pros/Cons and the following list beneath each heading:

Pros:  
Earn more $$$  
Save up for apt. not rented by Claire’s dad  
More $$$=better foundation for Untitled Standish-Bender Project

Cons:  
Too many hours  
Already working off my ass  
Would likely never see Claire and Untitled Standish-Bender Project

Reading these back, he realized that all of the potential cons were pretty much reduced to the same thing—too long a damn freaking workweek. But fuck, what a con that was. 

Frustrated, John ripped the list from the legal pad, crumpled it up, and threw it in the wastebasket. Like Scarlett O’Hara before him, he’d think about it tomorrow.

It was shaping up to be another weird day. The further along Claire’s pregnancy progressed, the more bizarre the days grew. First, after dropping Claire off at Eastlake, he drove to home base and, upon entering, came face to face with the new part-time receptionist, who was none other than Claire’s brother. It seemed that the guy was trying to supplement his income (without having to lean on his parents for extra ducats) because work as an art history professor only awarded him so much money. 

“The hell are you doing here?” John blurted after stopping short in the entranceway. 

Josh glanced up from the requisition form he was perusing. “Good morning to you, too, burnout. How’s my baby sister?”

Bender hung his jacket on the nearest coatrack. “Pregnant. Again, I ask what you’re doing here.” 

Josh shrugged and stuck a Number 2 pencil behind his ear. “Needed the work. Claire told me about the open position. I’m an art history professor. My wages are shit. The guy who cleans my toilet earns than I do.”

John considered Carl the janitor and wondered how much he made. Then dismissed the thought; it wasn’t his business. 

“Besides,” Josh continued, grinning. “I can keep an eye on the asshole who knocked up my sister.” 

“Ha,” John deadpanned, angling for the backroom. “There’s that delightful Standish sense of humor. Speaking of which, Claire probably won’t have any today. I just dropped her off at Eastlake to see Nora.” 

Josh quirked one red eyebrow. “She’s visiting with Mom?! Good luck. She’s gonna be pissed off when you get home. You’re gonna need some vodka.” 

After stopping in at home base, he drove to the site in Lake Forest for the rest of the day. They were just starting to add the “meat” to the interior skeleton, after some setbacks—namely, that the space the richie owner wanted the place built on was actually the previous site of a pretty large septic tank, and he had failed to disclose this after surveying the area. The dude thought that they could just build the place on top of the tank with no prior removal, never mind that the house would forever stink if doing so was even legal. Luckily, Big Bill had hired people to take care of the tank. Bender sure as *hell* wasn’t going to lend a hand there, metaphorically or, eugh, literally. That was entirely above his paygrade, thanks. 

At the end of the workday, he bid Eric and the crew adieu and drove back into the metro area. As Josh predicted, Claire was seething, parked on a loveseat in front of the television with a sour look on her face and a cashmere blanket draped over her body. 

Bender winced as he let the door slam shut behind him. She was about five minutes away from setting fire to their apartment—and on purpose this time. “Okay. What happened?”

Claire’s gaze ticked to him, then back at the blaring Panasonic. “What makes you think something happened?”

“Tres reasons,” John replied, holding up three fingers. “Uno, you only ever watch Disney movies when you’re pissed.” He gestured vaguely to the glowing TV screen, where Snow White’s seven dwarves were singing about high hoes. “Dos, the look on your face could melt steel. And tres—“ A shrug. “—it’s your mom.” 

Claire sighed, reached for a throw pillow, and hugged it to her chest. “I was barely able to tolerate my mother for twenty minutes.” 

'This should be stunning.' “What’d Ol’ Nora do this time?” he asked as he sank down beside her, extending one arm along the back of the loveseat behind her head. 

'Maybe the better question at this point would be "What hasn’t she done?"'

His very pregnant girlfriend laughed, though the sound was entirely devoid of humor. John shifted. That rarely foretold anything even remotely good. In fact, he had come to associate that noise with a fight-or-flight response. 

Claire gazed askance at him. “We’ll be getting a call tomorrow from the Mother Goose Agency.”

Bender’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

“An adoption agency,” she bit; her fingers had formed fists where they rested over the pillow. “My mother called an adoption agency. Without consulting me, obviously. Because if she had, I would’ve kindly suggested she go eat a dick.” 

'Jesus Christ.' John shook his head, unable to squelch the bark of incredulous laughter from escaping his throat. Claire glared at him, and once more, he was worried about his nads. “John, it’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, backtracking, mostly so that she wouldn’t laser a hole through his pants. “It *is* kind of funny that she would go to this extreme, though. Rich is right. Your ma really is an island unto herself.” 

Claire sighed and reached for the weird-looking phone on its hook. “I better call my dad. And then, once Mother Goose calls tomorrow, I’ll let them know that my mother is, like, totally batshit and no one should listen to her. Ever. For anything.” 

Bender snickered again, rose, and started for the bathroom. He was going to need a long shower to wash the wood shavings, dirt, and sweat from his body. 

The surrealism of the night didn’t end there. Once again, that night, Claire could not sleep. She continually tossed and turned, which meant that John tossed and turned and, at one point, fell entirely off the bed after his bedmate performed a wide-arc barrel roll that, combined with her pretty damn large pregnant stomach, was enough to send him sprawling on his ass. She laughed through her nose, apologized, and helped him up whilst he mumbled complaints about nearly having been sodomized by one of Claire’s shoes. 

Forty-five minutes later, he woke up to Claire sliding on a pair of maternity jeans—you know, the ones with the weird drawstring—and a tank top despite the fact that it was fucking freezing outside; she was always hot now, and not in the fun way, either. As crazy as her hormones were—and they *were* crazy, not that Bender had any complaints there—the more she grew, the more difficult it was to, eh, get down tonight. Though, they were attempting and discovering some interesting positions. After this, he was going to author a Kama Sutra for pregnant ladies. 

“Claire,” John began, bleary-eyed and slowly sitting up in bed. “What, pray tell, are you doing? It’s after fucking midnight.”

Shrugging, his redhead threw a leather jacket over her shoulders. “I have a craving. You don’t have to go. It’s right down the block.”

Which was how Bender found himself completely dressed—well, sort of, if one counted the first pair of clean sweatpants in the drawer and a holey Led Zeppelin sweatshirt as “dressed”—and walking the aisles of the nearest twenty-four hour convenience store, his eyes barely open. Because no way in almighty Hell was he going to stand back while his very pregnant—and a wee bit mad, he imagined—girlfriend ambled through the Chicago streets after midnight, no goddamn fucking way. It didn’t matter that the Loop was a better neighborhood than the Shitville he’d lived in years ago. Even Shermer after midnight wasn’t really safe. 

So, through the aisles he went, trailing Claire like a tired dog while she filled up her basket with crap. Cheez Doodles, Sour Patch Kids, cherry pie (he was too tired to crack the requisite joke), Entenmann’s, ice cream sandwiches, and, weirdly, more soup. While she looked through the bakery section, he shoved off to find himself a decent replacement for beer. Whenever he tried to crack open a can now, he saw in his mind’s eye his old man slurring drunkenly as he beat the shit out of him. Those recollections were enough to sway any desperation he had for alcohol. 

On the way back from the soda aisle, he found Cherry colliding with someone who looked vaguely familiar. At this hour, damn near everyone looked familiar, though. 

John watched as the girl crossed her arms over her chest and smirked. “Oh, look who it is! Claire ‘Miss Priss’ Standish.”

'Damn, isn’t that…?' Yep. The office’s former receptionist, the one Big Bill’d fired a few months ago. Natalie or whatever. 

Bender was about to cross the space between them to rescue Claire, but she didn’t seem to need it. “As opposed to Natalie ‘I’m out of a job’ McGinty.”

The smug smirk dropped from her face. A corner of John’s mouth curled. Claire would always be his mean girl. 

This, too, kind of turned him on.

The brunette bitch looked her up and down and raised an eyebrow. “Wow, someone got fa-atttt.” 

Claire rolled her eyes. “I’m pregnant, you half-wit.”

Natalie placed her hands on her hips. “And alone, I see. What happened, did Daddy freak out?”

'I don’t need this high school bullshit.' Striding across the lane, he encircled Claire’s wrist with one hand and curled his fingers over her shoulder with the other. “Babe? You done? Or do we need more diapers before we go?”

Her answering smile was part relieved and part amused. “Probably could use one more pack. It was so nice to run into you,” she added for the girl’s benefit, sending her a knife-edged grin. “So nice.”

Natalie was left standing there, fuming. That morning, Claire made him waffles.   
***  
Andy was with Brian when his friend finally received the letter from Johns Hopkins. 

His own apartment near Jefferson Park was being fumigated—actually, the whole building was being fumigated; some idiot neighbor of his who worked at the Field Museum had taken home this rare species from the insect exhibit to show his kid, it escaped from the protective jar and populated, and now, his apartment complex was ground zero for a poisonous breed of beetle imported from the Australian outback—and he was trying not to stay overnight with Allison until after they were married; call him superstitious, but he refused to do anything that would possibly derail or interfere with the wedding. 

He blamed his old man. Tim had instilled in him a healthy—or unhealthy—fascination with “good luck and bad luck signs” early on in his wrestling career. Because of this, he still went around wearing week-old socks and cringing whenever someone left a hat on the bed. 

Old habits were hard to break. 

As such, he was rooming with Brian until his place was less…toxic. And rare poisonous insect-y. Brian’s third floor apartment in Evanston was a bit farther from his office at Leo Burnett than he was used to, but it was either Brian, his mom and rowdy brothers in Shermer, or Bender and Claire in their…Bender and Claire-ness. He’d crashed at their apartment on the Loop once before when he was working late. The echo of them screaming at each other—over pants, of all things, namely Bender ruining her favorite pair of Calvins when he’d been on laundry duty—followed by sounds of the two “making up” after three hours of each of his friends using him to bitch was enough to warn him away from any overnight stays at Housely, indoor pool or not. 

Brian was an easy temporary roommate. He tended to wake up ridiculously early but puttered around softly so as not to disturb him and often left bagels for him on the counter. He did not use up all the hot water or leave his underwear lying around or whatever. Heck, even when Jackie stayed over, they kept the sounds of alone time to a minimum. 

Bri had been a bit tense recently, however. Jackie’s acceptance letter to Johns Hopkins had arrived two weeks ago, and still, his mailbox remained empty (excepting his mom’s chain letters and coupon inserts). Andy couldn’t help noticing that Brian was back to biting his fingernails down to the quick, an old habit he hadn’t indulged in since before getting his braces put in. Now, teeth straight and braces-free, he was back to ripping them off his nailbeds like his mouth was a cheese grater. 

As the week went on, he grew noticeably more and more anxious. That Thursday, he turned to Andy at the breakfast table and stuttered, “Do you think it’s lost in—in the mail?” 

In response, Andy had shrugged and asked him if he wanted to check out the post office. Bri maintained that he’d wait until Monday to see if it came. 

On Saturday morning, it finally did. 

The four of them—Brian, Jackie, Allison, and himself—were seated at the breakfast table chomping on bagels (cream cheese for him; honey and Coco Krispies for Allison) when Brian suddenly checked his watch and dashed to the window. 

“Mail’s here!” he cried, threw on a pair of khakis over the sweatpants he’d slept in for some reason only known to Brian, and ran out the door. 

He, Ally, and Jackie returned to their bagels and orange juice. Jackie gawked at Ally’s…confection—and the Pixie Stix she was mixing in her juice—looking a mite green. “You’re really gonna eat that?”

In reply, Allison took a big bite of her Coco Krispies bagel. Chewed once. Twice. Three times.

Andy chuckled. “This is kinda tame. You should see Ally’s fridge. The craziest leftovers.” 

Jackie wrinkled her nose in revulsion. Allison snickered and sipped her Pixie Stix-enhanced orange juice. 

A moment later, Brian burst through the apartment’s front door, clutching a rather thin white envelope in his hands and beaming. 'Don’t acceptance letters come in those folders? Maybe it’s different for graduate school…'

For Bri’s sake, he hoped it was.

Andy, Allison, and Jackie watched expectantly as Brian tore into the envelope. While reading the contents inside, eyes darting back and forth like ping-pong balls, the grin on his face gradually inversed itself. 

'Uh oh.' 

Jackie was the first to speak. “Brian? What is it?” 

“What’s it say?” Ally. 

“Bri?” Andy. 

The Brainiac dug his free hand into the moppish curls on his head and sighed. To Andy, it looked like he was about to weep. “I, uh, didn’t get in…”

'What?!'

In unison, all three pairs of eyes connected around the table. 

Jackie was staring at her brainy paramour, her jaw hanging open. Ludicrously, Andy could hear Greg cracking in his head that she was attracting flies. “WHAT?!” she exclaimed, giving voice to Andy’s instant reaction. “How…how is that possible? I got in! You’re summa cum laude, for Pete’s sake!” 

Brian’s shoulders bobbed. It was evident that his friend was trying to keep his true emotions in check. “Don’t know. Um, maybe I didn’t have enough extracurriculars or something?”

Ally swallowed her bite of Coco Krispies bagel. “I think that only matters for high school students, right? This makes no sense. You’re the smartest guy we know. There’s a reason everyone calls you Brainiac!” 

Bri crumpled up the rejection letter and dropped it in the nearest trash bin. “It’s fine. Um, I—I mean, Feinberg is a great school. It’s, um, n—not like I’ll be w—wanting of anything.” 

The more distressed he grew, the more prominent his stutter became. 

Andy cringed, rose from his seat, and patted Big Bri on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, man. That really blows. But it’s their loss.” 

Jackie’s single nod was succinct. “Absolutely. I’m not going if you’re not.”

Brian’s gaze cut to his girlfriend. “Jackie, don’t not go because of me. You got in. That’s amazing! You should, um…go.”

The poor guy looked like a kicked puppy dog. Jackie stepped forward, reached way up to palm his cheek, and gazed into his face. “Hey. We said we’d do this together. If you’re not going, I’m not going. End of story.” She added this just as Brian was opening his mouth to argue. “Besides, like you said, Feinberg is a fantastic med school.”

The Brain drew invisible circles on the kitchen floor with the toe of his sneaker. “But…don’t you want the degree you hang in your office to proclaim you graduated from Johns Hopkins?” 

Jackie shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “So it’ll proclaim I graduated from the Feinberg School of Medicine at Northwestern University. That’s nothing to spit at.” 

Andy nodded. “She’s right. Hell, I’d be totally put at ease if my own doctor went to med school at Northwestern!” 

“My doctor graduated from the U of Guam,” Ally said matter-of-factly. 

Three sets of eyes stared at her. 

Allison held up her hands. “Just adding that particular tidbit to the conversation.” 

Brian smiled at her then turned to regard his lady love. “You s—sure you don’t m—mind?” 

She waved away his concerns. “Baltimore Schmaltimore!” 

Brian pecked her on the lips while Ally mused at her half-eaten bagel. “It’s weird. I mean, who would reject you? You’re one of the top fifty graduates of Northwestern University’s most recent class. If I didn’t know any better, I’d smell a conspiracy.” 

Their friend laughed, though it sounded hollow and devoid of humor. “I’m sure that’s not the case.”

Andy gawked as Jackie’s visage went from placating and loving to knife-edge in seconds flat. “Oh, HELL no!”

Brian was agog. “What?”

Ally was also agog, and rather intrigued. His fiancée loved a good conspiracy theory. She had a dozen JFK assassination theory tomes lining the shelves of her apartment. “Yeah, what?” 

The three could only observe whilst the brainy brunette stalked to where her red peacoat was draped over a chair, threw it on, and started for the door. “I have to ask someone a question.”

Bemused, Andy, Brian, and Allison merely stared after her as she slammed the front door behind her.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Eric is the foreman. I swear it was just a random coincidence, but then I read back "Eric" and "Foreman" in one sentence and giggled. Hope Kelso isn't on the crew.
> 
> Note 2: the usage of "Mother Goose Agency" came from Bojack Horseman. The agency is, obviously, run by a goose. If you have not seen Bojack on Netflix I highly recommend it.
> 
> Note 3: The bug thing was inspired by a Married with Children episode. Kelly's modeling class takes a field trip to the local bug museum and she brings home a rare specimen of highly poisonous African beetle. Meanwhile, Al is hoping to save his old stomping grounds from getting bulldozed. Obvs, the beetle gets out and winds up biting Al as he's handcuffed to a goalpost and then populates. Man, I love that show.


	18. Chapter 17: That's What Friends Are For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Happy New Year and stuff! *blows on noisemaker* We are officially in the Roaring 20s. 
> 
> So I know the first few paragraphs are a bit exposition-y but *shrugs*
> 
> Oh, and more Hughesian cameos ahead!

Chapter 17: That's What Friends Are For

“And it turns out that Jackie’s father and Brian’s mother had sort of, I don’t know, been in cahoots or something. It’s wild!”

Across from Allison, Claire, dressed absurdly in a grayish-pink…frock thing with a Peter Pan collar, leaned forward in their shared booth, eyes wide. It was the following day, and the two girls were once more patronizing Peggy Sue’s for lunch. While Allison had ordered her usual vegetarian pizza—there were no Cap’n Crunch and Pixie Stix sandwiches on the menu, drat it all—her not-so-pristine friend went all out with an appetizer of mozzarella sticks, two entrées of a pork hoagie and a Denver omelet, and a just-arrived dessert plate consisting of a piece of pecan pie, chocolate chip cookies, red Jell-o, and vanilla pudding. At current, Claire was digging her spoon inside the small silver dish, trying to scoop up any remnants of pudding. 

'Damn, I can’t wait ‘til it’s my turn and I can eat like that.'

Though, Allison would much more likely eschew an omelet and pudding for a white fish and jelly sandwich, followed by a satisfying bag of potato chips dipped in peanut butter. 

“So, you’re telling me,” Claire began, taking an uncharacteristically vicious bite of cookie. “That Mr. Takahari pulled a string at Johns Hopkins to get Admissions to reject Brian?!” 

Allison’s nod was sage. “And teamed up with Mrs. Johnson to do it. Evidently, they had one thing in common—to keep Brian from Baltimore. Clearly, it backfired because Jackie won’t go there without Brian.”

Claire stuffed another cookie past her lips. Allison was rather impressed at this point. “What did Jackie say when she figured it out?”

Ally snickered. “Well, she stormed out of the apartment and went to confront her dad. He admitted it, and she all but hit the roof.”

Allison recollected back to yesterday, when Jackie had burst back into the apartment after stomping out of it two hours before, her face red, her eyes narrowed dangerously behind her thick-frame glasses, fists curled at her sides. She, Andy, and Brian (well, mostly her and Andy; Brian hadn’t really been paying attention) were gathered on the sofa in the living area, watching a rerun of 'Family Ties', Ally in the midst of giggling at Alex P. Keaton’s Reaganite antics. As one, all three of them jerked their heads when the door slammed, and Jackie took off her coat and hurled it on the table. 

“Oh!” she cried, stamping her feet and kicking the leg of the kitchen table. “I cannot be madder at him right now!” 

Andy furrowed his adorable brow. “At who?” 

“My DAD!” 

That proclamation made Brian sit up straighter. He rose from the couch and approached her hesitantly, asking what had happened. 

And she told them. 

Not long after having dinner at La Madeleine, Mr. Takahari clandestinely drove to the Johnson house, understanding from the dinner, Jackie said, that Mercedes, too, wished to bar Brian from moving. Their ultimate motivations were different. Mrs. Johnson wished to keep her son near while Mr. Takahari hoped to pry Brian and his daughter apart via distance. Their goals may have contrasted, but, at the end of the day, the two parents wanted the same thing—to keep Brian in Chicago.

Thus, Mr. Takahari contacted an old a college friend of his at Johns Hopkins’ application department and asked him, once he received a submission from a Mr. Brian Johnson of Evanston, Illinois, to quickly and quietly reject it. The friend owed Mr. Takahari a favor and so did what was asked. 

This all occurred months ago, before Jackie’s father actually started to appreciate Brian. Just a little. But, it either wasn’t enough for him to reverse his decision, or he plum forgot, as he claimed to his daughter. 

Jackie made her father apologize to her boyfriend face-to-face. And then pulled yet more strings to get Brian accepted. Brian Johnson, summa cum laude at Northwestern’s class of 1989, was to attend graduate school at Johns Hopkins. With his girlfriend by his side, of course.

They were to start matriculation in the spring semester, after the baby was born and the wedding took place. 

“I’m not missing any more of my friends’ milestones,” Brian had insisted through tears of joy at finally being accepted to the best medical school in the country. “I—I’ll just, um, defer until the spring.” 

So, that was how Brian and Jackie were bound for Baltimore. Against Mercedes Johnson’s hopes. First, Brian’s mother tried reasoning with him without actually reasoning with him, insisting that he’d “get lost in the city or something horrible could happen and your father and I won’t be there!” When that didn’t work, she tried good old-fashioned guilt. For once, that, too, failed to make an impression. Brian and Jackie were headed to Johns Hopkins. 

As for Mr. Takahari, he was still eating crow. His daughter refused to speak to him, nor did she accept any attempts at buying her affection back. Shiny new Schwinn in which to ride through campus? She’d just walk. The entire 'Star Trek' series on VHS? She’d seen all the episodes a dozen times each. An original, leather-bound copy of 'Gone With the Wind'? She had her own, thanks. 

“Bri keeps trying to persuade her to forgive him,” Allison continued, noisily slurping her chocolate milkshake through a crazy straw. “’He’s human, he made a mistake’ blah blah. Jackie will hear none of it.” 

Claire shook her head. “He’s a better person than me. I’d have him arrested.” 

Ally grinned. “I know you would. You’d probably put him on Death Row and totally get away with it because you’re Claire Standish.” 

Her redheaded friend pierced a piece of pecan pie with her fork. “Damn right I am.” 

Allison was on a secret mission today. The girls were planning Claire’s surprise baby shower to be held at her apartment, and, obviously, Claire could not be around while they set the whole thing up. So Eleanor, the de-facto “head” of the Claire’s Surprise Baby Shower Committee, had asked (well, more like demanded) that her sister take her out for lunch—a long lunch—while the apartment was being set up. 

Subtly, Allison glanced at her yellow Swatch. They had been here for close to two hours now. Surely, that was enough time, right? 

Digging some money out of her oversized bag, Ally dropped the price of the bill plus tip on the table and climbed out of the booth. “You done?”

Claire was in the midst of stuffing one more cookie in her mouth. “Mhmm,” she mumbled with her mouth full. Then, following a second’s hesitation, she wrapped the remaining cookies in a napkin and hid them in her purse. 

Allison shook her head. “You know, you can get more.” 

Claire shrugged. “I might get hungry on the way back.”

'Aw. I wish I had gotten her shoving cookies in her mouth like it’s a lawnmower on camera. It’d have been great blackmail later on.'

The drive back to Housely took an extra thirty minutes because East Randolph Street was closed due to the Steuben Parade, an event celebrating German-Americans. Claire’s stomach grumbled audibly when the delicious aromas of Käsewurst and Spätzle wafted into the cracked window on her side. 

Again, Allison shook her head. “We just ate!”

The redhead reached into her purse and plucked out a cookie. “Baby Bender will not be denied.” 

Driving past the red, black, and yellow flags, Ally mused, 'I wonder if Bender’s been here. His last name, after all, was German'. But she quickly reconsidered. 'Doubtful. He’d hijack a float and start belting out Rammstein.' 

When they were finally able to move again, Ally drove her vintage Pontiac—which she’d bought herself, no thank you, Lenore—down North Columbus and pulled into the parking garage. Claire thought they were going to watch movies and veg out. 

“So, do you wanna watch 'Grease' or 'Saturday Night Fever' first? I’m in the mood for some Travolta,” Claire mused while she waddled down the intricately decorated corridor to 1907. 

Allison slowed her pace in order to walk beside her. She was growing quite pregnant now. “'Urban Cowboy' is always an option.” 

The redhead wrinkled her lightly freckled nose while inserting a brass key in the lock. “I don’t think I have that one.” 

Then, everyone jumped up and yelled “BABY SHOWER!” 

Momentarily startled, Claire dropped her purse and rested her palm against her chest. Then broke into a huge smile. “You guys! Oh my God, you didn’t have to do this!”

Grinning, Ally elbowed her friend in the side where they stood in the front foyer. “Did you think we wouldn’t throw you an awesome shower? Claire Standish, how insulting.” 

Claire enveloped her in a hug, the scent of her expensive Chanel perfume creating a cloud around them both, then trotted further into the apartment to greet the party-goers. 

All women, of course. Baby showers weren’t really a “guy thing”. Which was why Andy, Brian, Bender, Ty, Stubbie, and Claire’s brother were down at the Bull, their Guys’ Night Out bar of choice. According to Andy—whom Ally had called using a payphone outside of Peggy Sue’s bathrooms—they were celebrating Brian’s acceptance into Johns Hopkins and Bender’s approaching fatherhood with beers and foosball. 

Going down the party line, Claire first embraced Jackie, then Megan, Eleanor, and two of her other richie friends from Shermer, Benny Hanson and Sloane Peterson. Benny’s real name was Benjamina, but there existed some weird trend among the richie population of going by cutesy nicknames. Ally didn’t get it.

“You guys, thank you so much for this!” Claire trilled after hugging the two girls. Allison had never liked Benny, not back at Shermer and definitely not in the present, either. 

Eleanor flashed a thousand-watt beam. “Happy Impending Motherhood! You’re going to be a great mom!” 

Claire embraced Allison’s sister again and thanked her. Looking around the living space, Ally nodded her head in admiration. The whole of the living room had been transformed, it seemed. Pink and blue locked streamers hung suspended from the ceiling. Mylar balloons touting “Congratulations!”, “Mama to Be!”, and “It’s A G̶i̶r̶l̶!̶ ̶B̶o̶y̶!̶ Bender!” (that had been Allison’s idea, along with pasting a picture of his head over the cartoon baby on the balloon) bobbed on top of weighted ribbons. A printout of Claire’s latest sonogram had been blown up and placed on a wrought iron easel, the words “Untitled Standish-Bender Project Comin’ At Ya!” floating above in loopy script. On the coffee table, serving plates of cookies shaped like pacifiers, rattles, and the “rock on” sign (Jackie’s idea) were scattered amid bottles of sparkling cider and orange juice for mock mimosa mix. Giftwrapped presents lined the breakfast bar. Even the Roger and Jessica Rabbit standees wore blue and pink leis. 

Megan, the baker of this group, offered Claire a pacifier cookie, then draped her in a “Baby on Board!” sash. Claire took a bite, closed her eyes in bliss, and promptly threw out the leftover chocolate chip cookies. 

The party started with games, such as 20 Questions: Baby Style, where all the guests asked Claire questions relating to parenthood—“Do you think it’s a girl or a boy?”, “What are your dreams for the child’s future?”, “Who do you think it’ll look like?”, “Where were you when you discovered the news?”, this last awkward query posed by Benny—Bobbing For Nipples, and Dirty Diaper. That one was odd. Even Allison had to work around her mental block to convince herself that that was chocolate in the middle of the diaper and not shit. Afterwards, the girls took turns rubbing Claire’s stomach for good luck. 

Later, over the strawberry shortcake Megan had made, Perpetual Mean Girl Benny blurted, “God, Claire, you’re about to have a baby! I can’t believe you and John Bender are even still together. He was such a gearhead in high school.”

Allison blew her bangs out of her face. And this was why she’d never gotten on with Benny Hanson. Not that she ever expected to. Allison did *not* get along with other richies, Claire and Jackie being the exceptions. And Eleanor, obviously. Sloane was all right, too.

Claire subtly rolled her eyes heavenward, but kept the frozen smile on her face. “Well, we are, and I’m totally excited! By the way, Benny, I am *so* sorry about your breakup with Brad.” 

Allison let a smirk bloom across her lips as the blonde briefly scowled, then covered it up with a too-sweet smile. Brad Dennings was Benny’s boyfriend of over a year—or had been, until recently. According to Claire, he’d dumped her…for her mother. 

Sloane’s eyes went round, then looked down at her piece of cake while trying to hide a grin. 

Cake finished, the group moved on to opening pastel-wrapped gifts. From Eleanor, Claire squealed over the baby clothes, particularly the tiny white robe with the ducky in the corner and the red “Don’t hate me ‘cus I’m adorable!” onesie. Megan gave her a Baby CuisineArt; the apparatus helped parents make their own baby food, using a strainer, a puréer, and a mixer, among other attachments. Sloane bought her a bunch of baby toys, including a Teddy Ruxpin. Benny, still smarting from the earlier comment, handed her box of baby sheets over with a brief hesitance. From Jackie, one of those bouncy seats, patterned with Mickey Mouse heads. 

As for Allison, she presented Claire with a heavy metal-themed mobile—complete with semiquaver symbol, a miniature electric guitar, the “rock on” hand, the silhouette of a thrashing hairband rocker, and a tiny version of the latest Led Zeppelin album. In addition, she sketched a picture of a baby playing the drums, trebles pouring out of the instrument; it was colored in colored pencil.

Claire loved the mobile and the sketch, which she planned on framing and hanging in the nursery, the extra bedroom beside the bathroom Bender and Ty were working on and refused to let Claire see until it was done. 

Moreover, all of them gifted her a box of diapers each. Benny was on a natural kick and thus, instead of Huggies or Pampers, gave Claire a box of this expensive brand that made diapers recycled from trash. Claire looked as if she wasn’t sure how to feel about her baby wearing what had once been garbage. 

To close out the evening, a shower of any kind wasn’t complete without a gossip session. Or a “hot goss sesh”, as Benny called it. 

“Amanda Jones got totally weird after that Keith Nelson thing,” Benny was saying, flipping her golden waves out of her face. “Can you believe she dropped Hardy Jenns for him? I mean, it’s *Hardy Jenns*.” 

Allison and Sloane, seated across from each other, shared a look and, as one, rolled their eyes. 

But Benny wasn’t done Mean Girl-ing. “I hear she’s going around with Ashford Langley, now. I know he’s one of us, but he’s such a burner!” 

Luckily, Claire could easily compete with Benny for the title of Hot Bitch on Campus. Ally’s friend may have been more mellow these days, but she still had those “richie bitchy” skills. She watched as the pregnant redhead slowly sipped her tea and placed it down on a china saucer with a soft click. “You mean Ash Langley? He’s John’s friend.” 

Ashford Langley III—he was a richie whose mother was an Eastlake member and a minion of Nora’s. Picking up on his mother’s classism and hypocrisy early in life, he rejected his fellow richies, adopted the nickname Ash, and hung around with guys like Bender and Ty. 

Benny paused for a second, sipped her own tea, then very obviously backtracked. No one wanted to piss off Claire Standish. “Well, like, he’s cute, I guess. If Amanda’s into burnouts. Not that there’s anything wrong with burnouts.” 

Allison snickered. Benny shot her a dark look. 

'Like I give a crap.'

The blonde clapped her hands, quickly moving on. “So, Sloane. How’s Ferris?” 

A dreamy expression came over Sloane Peterson’s angelic face. Ferris Bueller, who’d been one of the most popular guys at Shermer, and Sloane, a former cheerleader, were engaged after dating steadily for many years. While Sloane stayed close by and matriculated at Northwestern, Ferris went to school in California to study psychology. Unlike many high school sweetheart couples, they made their long distance relationship work, and now Ferris was back in Chicago attending graduate school at Northwestern. 

“He’s great!” Sloane enthused, beaming. “We’re waiting to get married until after he graduates. He just got an internship with Mr. Hashimoto at Shermer. I swear, his very presence drives Rooney up the wall.”

They all laughed, even Jackie, who had not gone to Shermer. “He’s the principal, right?”

Sloane nodded. “Yep. Still. He ran for superintendent but got next to no votes.”

Claire grinned. “Which I’m *so sure* Ferris didn’t have a hand in.”

The brunette’s eyes sparkled. “Officially, anyway.” 

Another laugh erupted from the group. Sloane then praised Eleanor’s pictures and begged her to photograph her own wedding. Allison’s sister readily agreed and even put forth a family discount. 

Benny turned her bitch-laser onto Ally. “And…Allison, right? How are you and Andrew?”

'You know my name, you skankpire'. Benny had had a major crush on Andy in high school, to the extent that she followed him home once. Andy, plainly, had never reciprocated. In fact, he’d once admitted to Allison years earlier that Benny Hanson kind of scared him. 

Following Claire’s example, Ally sipped her tea. Over the years, being friendly with Claire had gifted her with the proficiency required to quarrel with people without seeming like she was quarreling at all. This was Girl World. And in Girl World, all the fighting had to be sneaky. 

“He’s amazing,” Allison trilled, painting her “meeting a priest” look on her face. “We’re getting married, too. He proposed in a hot air balloon as we floated over a field of wildflowers. Isn’t that romantic?” 

As one, all the girls sang “Awww!” Well, almost all the girls. Benny just smiled painfully. 

Claire’s frienemy cleared her throat. “That’s…great. Um, congratulations.” 

“Thanks!” Allison made sure to add extra chirp to her voice.

Claire raised her teacup to hide her smirk. Then asked Jackie if she and Brian were excited for Baltimore. 

Jackie’s eyes lit up. “So excited! We’re going to be sharing an apartment. I just have to get used to Brian’s snoring.” She scrunched up her nose, biting into a rattle-shaped cookie. 

“Guarantee it’s not as bad as John’s,” Claire replied with a scoff. “Usually, I don’t even notice anymore, but when he has a cold, he can sound like a foghorn. I’m about to buy a muzzle.” 

Allison burst out laughing, picturing Claire ambushing Bender with a dog muzzle. 

“Ty’s the same way,” Megan added, wrapping a strand of dark hair around her finger. “He was, anyway. Oddly enough, one of those wave machines made him stop. Now he sleeps like a baby. Just without the crying and pooping and…” Off Claire’s grimace, she sniggered. “Sorry, Claire.” 

Claire rubbed her swollen stomach. “I’m gonna get two wave machines. One for John and one for his progeny.” 

Sloane leaned forward. “I get it. Ferris *talks* in his sleep! It’s like he thinks he has an audience or something.” 

“Maybe he does. Your whole life is being broadcast by some dude in a huge studio in outer space, and you just don’t know it.” When they all turned to gawk at her, Allison shrugged. “You never know.” 

The pretty brunette’s features transformed as she grimaced. “Thanks, Allison. That won’t make me paranoid or anything.” 

Eleanor asked Claire if she was planning on breast or bottle feeding.

“Both,” she replied, glancing down at her newly enormous chest. Bender had to be salivating over those things, they were huge. “I think it’ll be easier to wean the baby if I switch on and off from breastfeeding to formula. That’s what Dr. Lipschitz says, anyway.” 

Dr. Lipschitz was the author of all those baby books Claire had bought. Allison just hoped he wasn’t some quack. 

“Well, if it’s Bender’s kid, you better check for fangs first,” Ally snickered, ignoring her sister’s pursed lips in her direction. 

“Ha,” Claire drawled, then looked down at her boobs again and palmed her chest uncertainly. 

Ally’s snickers increased.  
***

Meanwhile, John had been kidnapped. 

The day had started off pretty uneventfully, with the exception of Claire assuring the lady from the Mother Goose Agency time and time again that she had no plans to put their kid up for adoption. Then, she called her old man again at his office and begged him to talk some sense into Succubus Standish. If that was impossible (Bender believed it was), please keep her away from Claire. 

After a hardy breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and more bacon, he drove off to home base, where Josh was seated behind the receptionist’s desk talking pleasantly to a customer on the phone while jotting their information down on a Post-It. 

When Claire’s brother placed the receiver back inside its cradle, he greeted him with a sly beam. “Well, if it isn’t Johnathon Edmund!” 

As always, John hung up his coat and began walking toward the back. “And if it isn’t Clarence Joshua Adalbert.” 

Josh’s grin dimmed. John snickered beneath his breath. It really was a stupid name. 

As Bender passed the desk, Josh handed him a folded up white paper bag. Perplexed, he gazed inside, wary that there’d be flaming dog shit or something in there. But he only counted a few cartons of jam and what looked to be English muffins. 

“What’s this?” he hedged, plucking a muffin from the bag. 

Josh’s grin returned. “Crumpets, gov’na! The Earl Grey is beside the coffee machine.” 

Bender scowled as Josh erupted in laughter, but took a bite of the crumpet anyway. He was still hungry. Maybe Cherry’s endless appetite was starting to affect him too.

“Oh, by the way,” the older redhead began as John resumed walking toward the back door. “There was some chick here earlier asking for you. Er, she wasn’t really asking, I guess, but sort of loitering outside the place.” 

John sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “Who?” 

“Girl who used to work here, I think.”

'Great. I’m gonna have to file a restraining order.'

In the days before he’d met Claire, having a girl so into him that she idled outside his office would have been his fantasy. Now, it was just annoying. 

“Do me a favor,” he said. “You see her again, call the cops.”

“Gotcha.” 

In the backroom, John put the finishing touches on that bookshelf. Once he was satisfied with it, he traversed the space until he came to stand before Claire’s half-finished rocking chair. Pulling off the white drop cloth covering it, he took stock of his work so far. He’d managed to finish the head and armrests, the back, and most of the seat, but he still had to carve out the legs—you know, the actual rocking part. Normally, he’d have been finished already, but he was only able to work on the chair when he didn’t have commissions lined up and a block of free time. 

Toward the end of the day, the bell above the shop sounded out, and Josh appeared in the doorway of the backroom to retrieve him. “Got some customers for ya.”

John turned off his buzz saw and followed Claire’s brother to the front. When, before him, he observed the unexpected image of Sporto talking to Ty, he blinked once, twice, before asking what the hell was going on. 

Both Sporto and Ty—and Josh beside him—turned to him and grinned. He wasn’t sure that he particularly liked that look. 

This was how he found himself first in Sporto’s hilarious soccer mom minivan, where Stubbie and Brian were waiting chattering about transformers, and later at the Bull Pub knocking back a Corona. While he was trying to seriously cut back on the alcohol, he figured a night out celebrating the Dork’s acceptance into Johns Hopkins and his own impending parenthood made for a decent exception. Still, John promised himself that he would not have more than two tonight.

After an hour or so at the bar, the six of them—plus their erstwhile classmates, Ferris Bueller and Cameron Frye, who they’d run into here watching a Cubs game—were circled around a cluster of pool tables at the back of the bar. Ferris was kicking the crap out of the Sport, which Bender found amusing, especially since the Clarks had their own pool table at home (one that he and Claire were especially familiar with). John was winning his own game against the Brainiac, but the dude was keeping up with him by literally turning the game into a geometrical challenge. 

“Four-ball, corner pocket,” he called while bent over the table. He quickly sunk Brian’s four. 

Hell yeah, if there was one thing John Bender was good at, it was pool. All those years spent at the pool hall as a teenager had racked him up quite the skillset. 

No pun intended. 

Brian groaned as Bender rounded the table, bent in half, aimed his pool cue, and mumbled, “Eight-ball, side pocket.” That, too, was sunk, ending the game. 

John threw up his arms and spun in slow motion. “Who’s the king of the scratch? Me, that’s who!” 

Stubbie, who was playing foosball with Frye, replied, “Careful. It’ll go to your head, and it’s big enough already.” When he scored a goal, Stubbie whooped. 

Frye crossed his arms over his chest. “Damnit! I’m better at air hockey. Can’t we play air hockey?”

Stubbie pointed to the Out of Order sign folded on top of the still air hockey set. Frye groaned and kicked a leg of the foosball table. 

“Easy, Cameron,” Ferris admonished without turning from kicking Sporto’s ass. “Remember the last time you lost it? Had to take you to Shermer General ‘cus you broke your toe.” 

Hanging up his pool cue, John snorted, remembering the incident at Wrigley and Brian’s subsequent sprained foot. “Sounds like something the Brainiac would do.”

“It healed,” Brian mumbled, rounding the table to hang up his own cue. 

“Yeah, after it turned so red, you almost got gangrene.” 

Big Bri muttered angrily beneath his breath. 

Ferris smirked and gestured between Frye and the Brainiac with his cue. “You two should’ve hung out more in high school. You’re delightfully similar.” 

“So, Brainiac,” Josh began from where he was bent over a Frogger arcade game. “How’d it feel getting into Johns Hopkins? Awesome school.” 

Brian grinned. “It’s great! Um, Jackie and I are going to share an apartment. W—we go on Halloween to check some places out.” 

John, who had crossed from the rack and was now lounging on a ratty orange couch in the game area, his booted feet resting on a just as shitty ottoman, barked a laugh and knocked back his beer. “Dork’s shacking up with Lady Dork. Mommy won’t like that!” 

Brian very noticeably flushed. He looked even paler today than usual under the glowing lights emanating from the neon GAMES, GAMES, GAMES sign tacked up above their heads. It also didn’t help that the Dork was wearing a black sweatshirt with some kind of math-y Dork joke on it. 

Bender was not going to waste the energy trying to figure it out. He hated math. 

“Or her dad,” the Sport added, aiming for a three-ball and instead sinking the white one. “Oh, fuck.” 

John made the sound of the sad trombone. Sporto flipped him off this time. 

Frye glanced up from the foosball game, allowing Stubbie to score another goal. “Is it true that your folks teamed up to keep you from going?”

Again, the Dork flushed, though Bender could detect the spark of anger in his eyes. Brian could be surprisingly terrifying when he was pissed. “Yeah. Um, the school rejected me at first, but…”

“But his lady saved the day!” Stubbie cried without turning away from the game. He was in the zone. “She Hulked out on her old man, from what I hear.” 

John nodded, impressed. 

“Man, I’d have been so pissed,” Frye continued, then grimaced. “But with my father, I wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled something like that.”

Ferris sunk the six-ball in the upper right corner pocket. “Cameron, your father gets mad if you sneeze.” 

From the Dig Dug arcade game beside Josh’s, Ty snickered. 

Bender sipped at his Corona. Halfway done. After this one, no more, damnit. He’d just have to deal with root beer. “Sounds like my old man. Except rich.” 

Andy scratched first, tried again to hit Ferris’ two-ball, and ended up sending his own zigzagging across the pool table like it was a game of pinball. “And mine, kinda.”

“I always said your old man and my old man should go bowling,” John said to the Sport as he leaned over the table. “We should set that playdate up.” 

“Speaking of *playdate*,” Ferris began, sinking yet another ball. John could hear the entertainment in Bueller’s voice. “Sloane’s at Claire’s baby shower right now.”

“So is Megan,” Ty added over sounds emitting from the game. He winced. “And Benny Hanson.”

Ferris imitated the grimace. Benny had tried to go after him too at one point. “Lovely. Great gal. If you’re Jaws.” Rounding the table, he fisted his fingers together and shoved his hand under Bender’s chin, as if it were a microphone. “You, my friend, are about to become a dad. How does it feel?”

John pushed the “mic” away. “Pants-shittingly petrifying.” 

At once, all the guys laughed, momentarily drowning out the cheers and smack talk from the same frat guys watching the newest Cubs game. 

“Don’t listen to him; he’s stoked.” The Sport actually managed to sink one in. “Claire told Ally that whenever he sees his kid on the ultrasound machine, he goes gaga.” 

John, scowling, threw his jacket at him. He was going to have to have a talk with Claire about which information she shared was damaging to his rep. 

…or not. In her hormonal state, she’d probably punch him in the nads. 

“Fuck you,” John muttered as all his compatriots snickered. “Like you’re not super-psyched for your wedding, Sporto, giving in to Basketcase’s every whim and letting her drag your ass around Chicago sampling caterers and auditioning bands and shit.” 

Bender had hoped to embarrass him, but the Sport only shrugged. “I am. The difference is, I don’t care if people think I’m a pussy because of it.” 

He scowled again and finished off his beer. 

“You should try Howard’s,” Ferris interjected. “They’re gonna cater our wedding.”

John grunted, ordering a root beer from a passing waitress. “Isn’t your wedding after Armageddon?” 

“Close,” Bueller replied, unruffled. It was difficult to shake up Ferris Bueller. The guy never let anything bother him. “After graduate school. I can’t wait to invite Dick and Ed. It’ll be glorious.” 

Stubbie smirked. “What’s it like working with those dingbats?” 

“Hilarious. They thought they were through with me when we graduated from Shermer. But they were wrong. Oh, were they wrong.” 

John allowed slow grin to blossom across his lips. He really had to pay a social call to Dick at some point.

“Everyone’s moving forward,” Frye grumbled. “You and Andy are getting married. Bender’s having a kid. Brian’s going off to Baltimore. And I…am still paying back my father for the car thing.” 

John cringed. Frye had ruined his old man’s legitimate ‘61 Ferrari 250 GT. And by 'ruined', he meant 'pushed out of a window'. The incident had made the local news. It made Bender’s gearhead heart clench. There were only five like it in the world. 

Well, four now, he supposed. Until the beauty’s full restore on Frye’s dime was completed. 

“I tried to take the fall for that,” Ferris reminded him, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he sunk another ball. 

Frye shrugged. “For once, I had to take a stand. You know my old man about strangled me, though.” 

By all accounts, Frye’s father was a real piece of work. But damn, it was a GT California…

John studied his stopwatch. “I gotta get home before Claire strangles *me*. And make sure she doesn’t do anything crazy. Her pregnancy brain is making her as nutso as Allison.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell Ally. She’ll be flattered.” 

John rolled his eyes, grabbed his jacket at the Sport’s feet, and walked out the door.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Welcome back the Steuben Parade! And yes, Bender's last name is German. It's fairly common there, actually. Käsewurst is cheese sausage. Spätzle are these cheesy noodles, and when made right, they are delicious. 
> 
> Note 2: Rammstein technically broke out in '94 but whatever, poetic license.
> 
> Note 3: Also welcome back "Pretty in Pink"s Benny Hanson and "Ferris Bueller's Day Off"s Sloane Peterson!
> 
> Note 4: I totally had a Teddy Ruxpin when I was a toddler. One of my first memories is not being able to sleep because Teddy's shadow was scaring the crap out of me.
> 
> Note 5: I thought about what Ferris would major in and eventually settled on Psych because he was good at getting Cameron out of his...Cameronness.
> 
> Note 6: "Mean Girls" and "The Truman Show" references!
> 
> Note 7: Claire reads the same baby books by the same doctor as Dede Pickles xD
> 
> Note 8: Of course with Sloane I had to include Ferris and Cameron.


	19. Chapter 18: Who's the Boss?

Chapter 18: Who's the Boss?

Every Halloween, Steve “Stubbie” Marshall threw an awesome party. And every Halloween, he invited everyone from their graduating class who still lived in the area. This meant that the whole gang—this year minus Brian and Jackie, who were in Baltimore scoping out apartments—convened at Stubbie’s place at precisely 9:30 PM, all dressed in their Halloween best. Just as they had done every year. 

The only difference this year—aside from the absent Brian and Jackie—was the location. A few months ago, Stubbie had moved out of his parents’ house and rented a loft in Logan Square above an abandoned warehouse. On Halloween, that abandoned warehouse became the spot to party hardy. 

Claire had never missed one of Stubbie’s Halloween shindigs. But, this year, she was having a helluva time finding a costume that would accommodate her nearly thirty-three weeks pregnant belly. 

Shopping at Spirit Halloween, the temporary costume store set up near Housely, she dug through rack after rack after rack. The witch’s costume was too tight in the abdomen. The Dorothy costume required her to wear sparkly ruby heels, which she was not totally comfortable with now that her body was a little off-balance. She found a random frog costume that would fit her, but it looked kind of gross, and she’d be hot as hell encased in that thing.

Claire was about to give up, cut some holes in a sheet, and go as a ghost. Until she found the jack-o-lantern, big orange grin and glowing yellow eyes and all. It came with orange tights and a little green stem headband. Finally, she had a costume. It was either this or the frog. 

John, however, was not much one for dressing up. In the past, he’d simply thrown on a tuxedo t-shirt and claimed to be James Bond. Plucked a green hat on his head and called himself a leprechaun. Then, there was last year, when he pasted a HELLO, MY NAME IS sticker on the corner of his shirt and filled in GOD. 

She’d given up trying to get him to do a couples’ costume. She was lucky if he even put in effort at all. 

On the night of, as Claire, dressed in her jack-o-lantern costume, was pulling on her tights, John, dressed in his usual flannel and jeans, asked her if she was ready yet. 

Claire blinked her eyes heavenward, straightening out the tights affixed to her legs. “John, it’s a Halloween party. You’re supposed to dress up, you know.”

“I am dressed up,” he insisted, gesturing down to himself. “I’m going as a construction worker. Boss, isn’t it?”

The jack-o-lantern was not amused. “John…” 

“Fine,” he grumbled, giving in. Glancing around the room, his eyes settled on a cheap, plastic devil horns headband he’d bought at that Poison show last week. Plopping the headband on his cranium, he held his arms up. “There. I’m Satan.” 

Claire chuckled through her nose. 

The party was already hopping when they got there. Stubbie, as usual, had gone all out, bedecking the warehouse with different colored strobe lights and Halloween-themed decorations—cackling witches, sticky cobwebs, severed body parts, zombies climbing out of their graves, grinning jack-o-lanterns, werewolf “heads” on plaques tacked on the wall. Projected on the west wall, Freddy Krueger terrorized the teenagers of Elm Street. Floating in the blood red punch were grapes shaped like little eyeballs. Beside the punch bowl on the concessions table were eyeball, pumpkin, and ghost cupcakes. Towering in the middle of the stand was a confection (bought at the same shop Allison had gone to for her own wedding cake) sculpted to resemble the classic 'Wizard of Oz'-style witch, literal warts and all. To the north, Claire recognized DJ Wizard from one of her favorite radio stations spinning tunes at his deejay booth. Right now, a hip-hop version of “Monster Mash” sounded out through the huge speakers flanking the booth. 

John whooped and threw up the “rock on” hand when Black Sabbath’s “Devil & Daughter” flooded the warehouse. 

Claire sighed and gestured for him to go join the forming mosh pit. Just because *she* could only stand here and quietly sip her punch didn’t mean that he had to do the same.

Andy and Allison, dressed like Bonnie and Clyde, complete with plastic Tommy guns, soon joined her at the concessions table. “Don’t shoot,” she pled upon glimpsing the faux weaponry. “I only have twenty bucks.”

“That would’ve been about 300 dollars back in the thirties,” Ally answered, tipping her orange beret. “So stick ‘em up, Standish.”

Claire halfheartedly raised her free arm. “I’m terrified.”

Andy laughed, straightening his own gray fedora. “Claire! You look…” 

Claire’s expression flattened. “I know. Like an actual pumpkin.”

Ally lightly smacked him with her toy gun. “Andy!”

Andrew winced and rubbed his arm where his fiancée had accosted him. “I was just going to say very orange!” 

Both Allison and Claire stared at him, deadpan. 

“I—I mean, because of your hair and then the orange pantyhose and the jack-o-lantern costume and I’m shutting up now.” 

“Smart,” Allison remarked, reaching for an eyeball cupcake. “Mmm! This is a delicious eyeball.” 

“There’s also taffy that looks like a cow’s tongue,” Claire said, gesturing to the pink...stuff in question. The taffy was thick and curled over the ends of the plate. 

“Ooh! I’m trying that next,” she replied, muffled with her mouth full of eyeball. 

Andy poured himself a glass of punch and glanced around. “Where’s Bender? I’m sure he didn’t let you come alone.” 

Claire’s responding closed-lip smile was affectionate, if humoring. John had been a bit…protective lately, as her pregnancy progressed. Whenever she reached for the doorknob just to, like, take out the garbage or do the laundry, he demanded to know where she was going, already palming his car keys. If she had a crazy late-night craving, he was there at her side, his worry for her safety overwhelming his intense exhaustion. And he’d come to every appointment with Dr. Devers so far. 

She knew he’d asked Andy to change the date of the two wedding rehearsals, too. Claire had to reassure their friend that she’d be fine to attend.

Right now, it was sweet, if a little annoying. But Claire thanked *God* it was only for the next few weeks. She would’ve gone crazy if his hovering lasted much longer than that.

Gesturing toward the dancefloor, where a motley crew were thrashing to Mötley Crüe’s “Wild Side”, she answered, “I told him to go have fun. Just because I’m a whale doesn’t mean he has to stay by my side every minute.” 

Allison was chewing on a piece of taffy/tongue. “You’re not a whale. You’re a jack-o-lantern.” 

Claire crossed her arms over her chest, not amused. Gazing across the expansive space, she glimpsed Eleanor Reynolds, dressed like Tinkerbell, chatting rather cozily with a de-masked Stubbie, who’d gone as Jason Voorhees. “Your sister looks like she’s having fun, too.”

Both Ally and Andy followed her gaze. Allison laughed whilst she watched her older sister openly flirt with her former classmate. “If she doesn’t come home with us tonight, at least I’ll know where she is.”

Andy chuckled. “Ah, Stubbie’s always had a thing for older girls. Starting in freshman year, when he was so head over heels for Ms. Tyler, he transferred classes just to be near her. She taught Home Ec. He was the only guy in there.”

Later, back at the apartment, John—now covered in orange and black confetti and wearing a glowing green ring around his neck—was going on about DJ Wizard. “I can’t believe the Jockstrap got him. He spun for Van Halen’s latest album release party.”

Claire was in the midst of changing out of her jack-o-lantern costume. 'Stupid tights. They’re always so hard to get off.' “Stubbie must’ve paid him a lot of money.” Not that he couldn’t afford it. 

“Richies. Money makes the world go ‘round,” John muttered just as the doorbell rang. Trick-or-treaters, kids who lived in the building. They were the only ones who didn’t have to be buzzed up.

John grumbled and turned into the hallway. Distantly, Claire heard the latch clicking, the door opening, and her boyfriend chuckling. “Marty McFly and Doc Brown. Nice.”

As Claire rose from the bed to place the balled-up hose in the dresser—Pete watching her curiously from his habitat, hoping for a delicious mouse (that was John’s job; while she had grown used to Pete and even sort of liked him/her now, *hell no* was she going to feed him a mouse, dead or not)—a crumpled piece of yellow paper tipped out of the wastebasket and fell to the floor. Stepping a few paces toward the rubbish, she idly smoothed it out, about to dump it back in the basket, when the familiar bold scrawl made her pause. 

To Take Promotion or Not to Take Promotion (That is the Question):

'Promotion? John was offered a promotion?'

Pros:  
Earn more $$$  
Save up for apt. not rented by Claire’s dad  
More $$$=better foundation for Untitled Standish-Bender Project

Cons:  
Too many hours  
Already working off my ass  
Would likely never see Claire and Untitled Standish-Bender Project

As she scanned his small list of pros and cons, her forehead wrinkled. Moving backwards, she crouched to perch on the edge of the bed.

'Why didn’t he tell me about this?'

John walked through the doorjamb of their bedroom again, carrying the plastic devil horns. “I swear, some of the costumes these kids come up with. I only had Spider-Man. Went as him four years in a r—what are you reading?”

Claire glanced up from the list and, after a second, turned it around for his perusal. 

John cringed and ran a hand through his hair, sending some of the confetti floating to the floor. “Shit. Where did you find that?”

“It was crumpled up on the floor by the wastebasket,” she explained. Turning it back around, her eyes fixed once again on the writing. “John, you were offered a promotion? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sighing, he lowered himself to sit beside her. “Because I wasn’t sure if I was gonna take it. Hell, I’m still not.” 

One particular “pro” stood out to her—namely, that the promotion would allow him to save money for a new apartment, one, as he stated, that would “not be rented by her father”. Claire set the list down beside her, between them. “So you haven’t given Big Bill an answer yet?”

John shook his head. “I gotta soon. He’s been patient. But…I still have no idea what I’m going to say.” 

Claire cupped her hand over his knee. She wasn’t *mad* or anything; she understood why he hadn’t told her. But she could tell that the decision was weighing on his mind. “Well…I’ll support you whatever you want to do. But don’t take it just because of the apartment thing. I keep telling you it’s not necessary.”

Huffing, he rose from the bed, paced a bit, then rested to stand before her. “Claire, I can’t help it. Living under your old man…it makes me feel, like, *less than*.”

“Less than?” 

John crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m supposed to be the provider. Right now, I don’t really feel like I’m providing.” 

Claire rose, walked toward him, and curled a hand around his arm. “John, you are providing plenty.” 

He scoffed, clearly not buying it. 

She continued, hoping to get his attention. “You do! Who buys all the food? You. Who pays off the bills? You. Who paid for this bed?” Waving vaguely behind them to the queen size, she finished, “You.”

Shrugging, John gazed down at his stocking feet. Classic move when he knew she was right but didn’t want to admit it. “Not *all* the food.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Okay, most of the food. The rest is my ridiculously overpriced gourmet crap from Mariano’s.” 

Laughing through his nose, he finally met her gaze. Claire offered him a smile. “So…you think I shouldn’t take it?”

“I think you should do what you think is best,” she volleyed. “I don’t want you to be *gone* so much. I don’t want you to overwork yourself. But with the baby around, we’re going to need more stuff. You know I have my own trust. It’s not like I can’t help until I get a teaching job.”

John pursed his lips. She knew he could be a tad old-fashioned when it came to stuff like this. “All right. I need to have a talk with Big Bill.”

Claire squeezed his arm. “Whatever you decide, I promise everything will be fine. Now, go take a shower because you’re getting confetti everywhere.” 

He grinned and shook out his hair like a wet dog. Claire raised her hands in front of her face to block the barrage of tiny crepe paper squares.   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Short chapter this update, the next one should be longer
> 
> Note 2: Spirit Halloween is legit; it's the pop-up Halloween store nearest me and all throughout Jersey in September and October. I am not sure if they work in Illinois.
> 
> Note 3: Any "Buffy" fans will understand the reference of John's previous Halloween costume :D Werewolf Oz famously pasted a HELLO MY NAME IS GOD sticker on his shirt in the season 4 Halloween episode, Fear Itself. 
> 
> Note 4: Mariano's is a real gourmet market in Chicago. Kind of like Whole Foods but more exclusive


	20. Chapter 19: Sudden Impact

Chapter 19: Sudden Impact

Thursday November 9th, and the Breakfast Club was once again locked in a vacancy. 

This particular vacancy, however, wasn’t a squat cement slab in the middle of nowhere but, instead, a creepy, towering cathedral…in the middle of nowhere. 

And they were prevented from leaving this time not because of some jerk throwing around what miniscule authority he had but a freak snow storm. It was coming down hard, and all the main roads were closed, including the one that they needed to take to get back into the city. 

Andy saw another night spent at his mother’s in the Club’s near future. 

As it was, all the wedding party were gathered at St. Francis’ for the first of two rehearsals. Stubbie was running around making sure everyone was in their places; it was kind of funny to watch the normally unflappable jock nearly pulling his hair out because one of the bridesmaids was walking out of tune or the aisle runner wasn’t straight enough. 

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Andy once again took his position at the front of the aisle while Stubbie directed the rest of the party down the red carpet Ally had bought at a garage sale. Andy could time it all like clockwork by now. After the flower girl and ring bearer—Andy’s seven-year-old cousin, Sarah, and his mom’s bulldog, Tank—followed Brian and Jackie, both looking weary after having done this a dozen times already. Then came Bender and a very pregnant Claire, who occasionally had to pause halfway down the cobblestone pathway due to hefting thirty-five pounds of extra weight (he knew exactly how much his friend weighed now because she complained about it every time he and Ally saw her), plus a Baby Bender in her womb that, according to her, was quite active. It liked to kick. Hard. Andy wasn’t surprised. 

Whenever Claire stalled, Bender hovered around her like a helicopter, asking if something was wrong, did she need help, should they stop, etcetera. Claire, Andy could tell, was getting restless with all of his hand-wringing. Andy secretly found it amusing that the so-called “badass” of their group was turning into an overprotective humming bird. 

Then again, he could see himself acting the same way in Bender’s shoes. 

Third down the aisle was his brother, Greg and Allison’s sister, Eleanor, their respective Best Man and Maid of Honor. Stubbie looked annoyed to see Eleanor hanging off his brother’s arm, also amusing. 

Lastly, his bride-to-be, escorted by the de-facto planner in question. Her parents hadn’t been able to make it “due to the snowstorm”. Andy knew that Ally and her mother had had a bit of a blowout at Eastlake recently; he figured that probably had more to do with their absence than the weather. 

She looked beautiful and totally Ally, though, in a black long-sleeved dress and striped tights. Whenever their eyes connected across the room, they smiled at each other, knowing that their I Do’s were only a few months away. 

“Okay,” Stubbie said, clapping his hands. “I want to run through it one more time.”

Everyone groaned. Stubbie was taking no excuses. 

Except for when Claire said she had to sit this one out. “Baby Bender’s kicking up a storm, and I have to pee.”

Bender looked askance at her. “Again?”

She shrugged. “She is sitting right on my bladder. I feel like I’m going to explode.” 

Andy’s mother laughed. “Oh, I remember that! Especially with Andrew.” Carol spun to face him at the head of the aisle. “You were laying *right* on my bladder. I had to use the bathroom a dozen times a day with you.”

Andy winced as Allison erupted in giggles. Was everyone in his family going to share embarrassing stories about him at these things or what?

All he needed was his father to reveal to everyone that he’d once stolen his aftershave and screamed like his face was burning off. 

The old man had actually made the effort today. Tim and Carol had walked their son down the aisle.

As Carol led Claire once again to the bathroom, Bender approached him, glancing every so often over his shoulder. “Dude. I really think the next rehearsal should be rescheduled.” 

Andy sipped from a bottle of grape soda he had brought from home. Honestly, he understood his friend’s trepidation, but Claire had assured him time and time again that it was all fine. “Claire said the doctor told her it’d be okay.” 

The burnout looked worried. Or uncertain. Andy had never glimpsed this side of him before. It was a little, well, weird. Bender didn’t *do* worry. Chaotic bouts of anger, yes, though those were scarcer now that he was away from his old man. But worry? No. “I don’t know, man…” 

Andy clapped his shoulder. “It’ll all be cool. If I thought Claire couldn’t handle it, I’d just cancel the second one.”

Bender still appeared torn. 

That evening, it had stopped snowing but the roads were still hazardous. Once again, Carol Clark insisted on “the kids” remaining with her. “No one is driving through Chicago in this mess!”

So, following a drive to Shermer—which took twice as long as expected—they all met up at his mother’s. It was an even fuller house than after his and Ally’s engagement party. All of his brothers were in attendance, as well as his Aunt Pat, Uncle Morty, and cousin/flower girl, Sarah. While she and Travis went to bed, the rest of them all watched the miracle of the Berlin Wall being torn down. It was being live broadcast from Germany. Andy couldn’t believe it; the thing had been up since before most of them were born. 

Claire, on the couch beside an unmoving Bender, who was a wall all his own tonight, wrinkled her nose at the television blaring before them. “Is that David Hasselhoff?” 

Bender squinted at the TV. “Why is the dude from 'Baywatch' singing?” 

Allison, grabbing a handful of popcorn and stuffing it in her mouth, bobbed her shoulders. “I hear the Germans like him.” 

“Is he wearing a…piano…jacket?” Claire continued, one red eyebrow cocked. “That lights up?” 

Ally tittered. “It’s totally like you to be more fixated on Hasselhoff’s weird jacket than this literal historic moment.” 

“Well,” Andy said, also gawking at the scene before him. “It *is* a crazy jacket.” 

They slept anywhere there was available space. On the furniture, the floor. Stubbie slept on the kitchen table. Andy’s mom insisted Claire and Bender use the master bedroom. He just hoped there was no funny business going on in his mother’s bed. He wouldn’t put it past them, though. 

**  
That weekend was the second of the two rehearsals. This one, Stubbie had declared, was more a “dress rehearsal, but not exactly”. Meaning everyone had to dress up in clothes like the ones they were to wear for the wedding but not the actual ones. “After all,” he said, sounding totally earnest. “The groom cannot see his bride in her wedding dress before the wedding. It’s bad luck.” 

John cackled at how seriously Stubbie was taking his role. 

That morning, Claire searched through her wardrobe for something slightly resembling the blood red satin and Chantilly lace bridesmaid gowns Allison had chosen. The choice had impressed Claire; she would’ve assumed she and the other bridesmaids were doomed to, like, funeral mourning dresses. Instead, the trumpet gown was a luscious burgundy and off-the-shoulder, with a triangular patch of lace at the hem and a belted sash around the waist. It was pleasantly surprising. 

Claire only hoped that she’d be able to actually fit in it once Untitled Standish-Bender Project was born. 

Eventually, she settled upon a billowing red empire waist dress with cap sleeves and a crocheted bodice. She could just barely fit in it. Surely, it was unseasonal. 

Claire gazed at her reflection in the full length mirror and sighed. 'I look like one of those kickballs we used to play with at recess.' 

John burst into the bedroom dressed in his finest—and by “finest”, she meant a pair of black Dickies pants, his ever-present Docs and denim jacket, and that same tux t-shirt he’d worn when he’d gone as James Bond for Halloween one year. “Claire! Are you dressed yet? We’re gonna be late and then Sporto and Jockstrap will ream me and I am *not* in the mood so I may punch them in the huevos.” 

Claire straightened the top of the dress and slipped on a pair of matching ballet flats. “Almost.”

She could almost hear his roll of the eyes. “Jesus, woman. Can you take forever to get ready.” When Claire glared at him, he very obviously backtracked, likely afraid of what she’d do to his own huevos otherwise. “N—not that you aren’t already beautiful. You’re gorgeous when you just wake up and your hair looks like a sleeping cat.”

The Princess guffawed in spite of herself. “Smooth.” 

Gazing at her reflection once again in the mirror, Claire sighed forlornly. She looked like a bloated beached whale. It wasn’t just her stomach; everything looked bigger. Her feet. Her arms. Hell, even her *face* looked fat. Not to mention her butt—it was enormous. All those cookies from the baby shower had gone poof, right to her ass and thighs. 

In her peripheral vision, she saw John lean against the doorjamb. “What’s wrong, Cherry? Got a zit marring your perfect face?” 

'Perfect face, my ass.' And yes, she *did* have a zit. A few zits. The pregnancy had given her a raging case of hormonal acne. The amount she’d spent on concealer and foundation the last few months was…she wouldn’t go there. But it was a lot. 

“John, you know very well I’ve been breaking out like crazy,” Claire grumbled, arms crossed over her chest. 

The blurry Bender out the corner of her eye shrugged. At this vantage, he was a long black, denim, and brown blob. “I haven’t noticed.” 

'Pfft'. “Yeah, okay.”

“I haven’t,” he insisted, walking further inside the room. “Either you’re exaggerating or you’re incredibly good with a makeup brush. I suspect both.”

Claire inclined her head. She *was* very good with a makeup brush. 

Languidly leaning her forehead against the mirror, she mumbled, “I feel so fat.”

She heard John sigh. “Claire, you’re not fat. You’re pregnant.”

“Same thing” was her mumbled response, still slumped over against the mirror. 

“No,” he negated. She watched his reflection as he shuffled up behind her. “Vastly different.”

Claire parted with the mirror and spun to face her boyfriend. “Don’t you remember? I’m going to punch out a puppy and then—“ Imitating the John of five and a half years ago, she puffed out her cheeks and drew her arms in a wide arc. 

John huffed, but she gleaned a bit of satisfaction from his accompanying grimace. “All right, all right. Claire, I was just being a jackass.”

Claire deliberately broadened her dark eyes. John had once compared her irises to “twin coffee beans”. She hadn’t known exactly what to say to that other than “Thanks?” She considered it a compliment now, having grown very fond of coffee. “You?! I’m shocked.” 

'About as shocked as discovering that water is wet.' 

Sighing, he walked a few paces closer, bid her to turn back around, and rested his hands on her hips from behind. As was becoming habit upon glimpsing her reflection in all its non-glory, Claire groaned beneath her breath. “Babe. You wanna know what I see right now?”

“A human-sized glob of red Jell-o?” 

John blinked. “Well, no. But now I want Jell-o.” 

She scoff-chuckled through her nose. “We have some in the fridge. And no, I didn’t make it myself, so stop worrying.”

“Score!” One of his arms rose to fist-pump the air. Claire shook her head, but she was wearing a reluctant smile. “Suffice it to say, I definitely don’t see Jell-o when I look at you, though. What I see is—“

“—a badly prepared cake? A pile of mashed potatoes? A lump of cookie dough?”

John scowled. “Stop comparing yourself to food. Not only are all of those wrong, you’re giving me weird cravings.” 

Claire spluttered. “Now you know how it feels.” 

He ignored that. “What I see is a sexy as hell chick who happens to be pregnant.”

“Yeah, right.”

Shuffling ever closer behind her, John rested his chin on her left shoulder, hands moving from her hips to her very round abdomen. “I’m one-hundred percent serious.”

Claire gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t grinning mockingly or anything. “You’re not just trying to keep me from locking myself in the bedroom?”

“Why would I do that? I’d *want* you to lock yourself in the bedroom. With me there, obviously.”

Claire blinked her eyes skyward. 

“Besides,” he continued; his palms slid along the width and length of her stretched stomach. The baby gave a solid kick. “That’s *my* kid in there. I put him—or her—in there. And it’s growing in you. That’s pretty fucking amazing in my book.”

Not knowing exactly what to say to this, her right hand came up to rest atop his left one. 

“I admit,” John went on with a little bob of the shoulders. “When you first told me you were pregnant, I was scared out of my mind. But…when you started growing, heh. I, uh, never felt more like a man.”

She knew what to say to *that*. Claire turned to face him, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, so it’s a possessive Neanderthal thing.” 

Again, John shrugged. “I’m a guy. Everything is a possessive Neanderthal thing.” 

Claire rose up on her toes to kiss him. Possessive and a Neanderthal he may have been, but she was crazy about him anyway.

Later, after driving through the snow-flanked but clear roads through the city and into Winnetka, the wedding party was, again, rehearsing at St. Francis’. This time, though, everyone was an approximation of “dressed up”, braving the winter weather in stockings and pleats. Also unlike last time, Allison’s parents were reluctantly in attendance, though they definitely made their discontent with “this drafty pit” known. Repeatedly. 

“Allison, this place is freezing,” Lenore Reynolds carped as she rubbed her arms. Ignoring the directive by Stubbie, she’d shown up much the same as she had at Eastlake, Claire thought. A cashmere turtleneck, gray herringbone slacks, and treacherous-looking black stiletto boots.

How the hell did she manage to slide on all this ice in those? 

Walking side-by-side with her parents toward the head of the aisle, where they were all waiting, Ally replied, “Lenore, you are the only one complaining. Everyone else is fine. The place is heated, you know.” 

On the slightly raised dais, Andy winced. Claire silently snickered. Well…he *did* invite them. 

Carol Clark reached for the blue ski jacket she’d draped over a pew. “If you wish, you can use my coat, Mrs. Reynolds.”

Lenore narrowed her gaze on the garment in question. “No, thank you. I will just…have to get used to it, I suppose.” 

Carol replaced the jacket. Her responding smile was so obviously uncomfortable and awkward, it made Claire giggle. 

Lenore’s gaze darted to her. “Is there something humorous, Miss Standish?” 

She felt like she was back in high school being reprimanded by her teacher. “Not a thing, Mrs. Reynolds.”

“Andrew, your hair is sticking up in the back,” Carol admonished. She licked her fingers and smoothed the wayward strands, against Andy’s grousing. “You boys and these cowlicks.” 

“Mom! Jesus!” Andy whined, and Allison laughed.

On Andy’s left side, Tim Clark shook his head. “Carol, he’s a grown boy—man.” 

Carol Clark shrugged. It had taken about a year and a half for Tim’s erstwhile wife to agree to even be in the same room with her former husband. It took some time, but now the once married couple could tolerate each other’s presence and even joke around a bit. “Just fixing it!”

Beside Andy, Best Man Greg guffawed in amusement until Carol performed the same act on him. 

On Claire’s direct left, John was laughing at the both of them. “Twank yous, Mommy!” 

Andy and Greg scowled in tandem. 

Somewhere behind them, a high-pitched whistle sounded. Upon turning around, Claire discovered Stubbie—with an actual coach’s whistle around his neck—clapping his hands to gather everyone’s attention (as if the whistle itself hadn’t) while stalking up the aisle. “All right, people! That was…decent. We’re gonna try it a few more times.” 

Groans bounced off the walls from the peanut gallery, John’s loudest of all. “Good fuck, Jockstrap. Aren’t you taking this a little too seriously?” 

Stubbie narrowed his eyes at her boyfriend. “I take every kind of party seriously, burnout. House parties. Hootenannies. Shindigs. Raves. Sweet Sixteens. Bar mitzvahs. And, yes, weddings. Places!”

Claire barked a laugh at John’s subsequent grumbling. 

Once she reached the back, however, she paused. A series of kicks in quick succession, followed by the desperate, sudden need to pee, enveloped her every thought. She considered waiting until this, er, “round” was over with, but Claire felt as though her kidneys would explode if she didn’t go now. 

Looking up apologetically at Stubbie, then at John, she said, “Upp. Gotta head for the ladies’.” 

John frowned. “*Again?* You just went a half hour ago.”

“Late-term pregnancy for you.” Claire stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll be back.”

“Do, ah,” he stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you need me to go with?”

Claire paused at the exit doors, her expression deadpan. “Really?”

Helpless, he shrugged.

Eleanor, too, stepped out of line beside Greg. “*I’ll* come with. I have to go also.”

Stubbie groaned. “Why do women feel the need to go to the bathroom together?” 

Claire pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Why do men feel the need to take Polaroids of their penises?” 

Allison nearly collapsed to the floor in a heap of limbs and hilarity while some of the guys—Brian, most noticeably—turned red. Eleanor and a waddling Claire walked to the nearest ladies’ room. 

In the stall, she heard Eleanor finish up first, flush, and wash her hands in the sink. “I’ll be waiting outside, Claire.” 

Claire rolled her eyes as she sat on the toilet. “You don’t have to wait up for me, you know.”

“But then your boyfriend would never forgive me,” she snickered in reply as her shoes disappeared out the bathroom door. 

Claire shook her head. 'Sometimes, he acts like I’m a ticking time bomb', she groused, finally pulling herself up from the great porcelain god. After flushing, she gripped her lower back as a dull pain surged through it and shuffled toward the sink. 

And then, as she was washing her hands, she felt it—another wave of back pain, followed by a sort of pressure, a surge, from deep inside. It was so unexpected, so intense, that Claire was forced to grip the sink’s ceramic sides with a white-knuckled ferocity. 

Her legs wobbled, knees knocking together, whilst she reoriented herself. Until it happened again. And stronger this time. 

A sensation of warm wetness puddled between her legs. Swallowing, Claire slowly lowered her gaze and confirmed the distinct pool of water she stood in the middle of. 

Another wave of pain and pressure washed over her. And that was when Claire started yelling.   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Stubbie turning into a bit of a wedding planner diva amuses me.
> 
> Note 2: "Home Alone" reference there, if you catch it!
> 
> Note 3: The Berlin Wall came down in November of '89. The occasion just celebrated its 30th anniversary. If you haven't seen video footage of Hasselhoff singing "I'm Searching For Freedom" on top of the wall while wearing a..circumspect jacket, I suggest you YouTube it.


	21. Chapter 20: She's Having A Baby (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! The next few parts will largely be in either John or Claire's POV. Because...baby. Kind of a priority.
> 
> Also, I've gotten a few reviews in my DMs asking me to include fanart. Or draw something or whatever. Sadly, I have ZERO artistic talent, unless you count stick men. But if any of y'all want to contribute something, be my guest! Consider this blanket permish. You can slip anything in my DMs or email it at beerach1987@gmail.com

Chapter 20: She's Having A Baby (Part 1)

Brian had no earthly idea why he’d been chosen to retrieve Claire and Eleanor. 

The two had been gone from the chapel for over twenty minutes, and not only was Bender getting antsy, Stubbie looked exasperated. “Dork! Go find Claire and Eleanor. We’ve gotta finish this before dark or else we’ll have to stay in Shermer again. No way am I driving back to Chicago in the dark with three feet of snow on the ground.”

Brian blanched. “Me? But I’m—“

“Damnit, Brainiac, just go!” Stubbie massaged his temples. “I need a Tylenol or six.”

So, off to find Claire and Eleanor he went. Creeping out of the chapel, he first searched the main foyer and some of the other drafty rooms, the pulpit, even the church’s basement. Sadly, he did not find either of the girls, so he swallowed his pride and ventured toward the bathrooms on the second floor. 

There, standing in front of the ladies’ room, he glimpsed a sliver of light eking out from under the heavy wooden door. Someone was in there. Clearing his throat uncomfortably—'I *so* don’t want to do this'—Brian tentatively raised a fist to knock. 

When there was no response, he repeated his actions, a little more forcefully this time. “Eleanor? Cl—Claire? Are you guys—you guys, um, in there?”

At first, there was no response. Then, Brian discerned the sound of shoes plopping against the floor, as if the person who owned the shoes had jumped up from the ground on unsteady feet, and, a second later, Eleanor pulled open the door. She looked harried—long blonde hair falling out of the bun at the nape of her neck, eye shadow washing off, and, most notably, a big wet circle staining the middle of her dress. 

Brian was taken aback. “Eleanor? Wh—what happened?”

“Get in here!” 

And, before he could stutter a reply, Eleanor’s fingers were closing around his tie and pulling him into the women’s bathroom. 

Brian slammed his eyes shut as soon as his feet crossed the threshold, hearing his mother’s voice in his head—'Never, ever go into the ladies’ room! It isn’t polite!' The gentle perfume of roses hung in the air. 

Someone tugged on his arm. “Brian! Open your eyes!” Eleanor’s voice.

Shaking his head nervously, he parroted his mother’s words from long ago. “I—it’s not polite. Um, to look. In a women’s bathroom.”

He could hear Allison’s sister scoff. “No one else is in here! We need help, damnit!” 

Cautious, Brian popped one eye open, then the other. Eleanor was staring up at him, a wild look in her eyes. “We?”

She nodded quickly and grabbed his hand, leading him deeper into the bathroom. The scent of roses intensified. The sinks were claw-footed and made of antique gold. There was a mural of creeping moss and wildflowers decorating one pink-painted wall. Indolently, he wondered if all girls’ bathrooms looked like this.

Then, then, he stopped short after coming upon a lump in the middle of the floor. A red lump, with its knees pointed toward the ceiling and a grimace of pain on its face. 

'Claire!'

Brian bent down immediately. “Claire! Y—you’re in labor?” 

Claire turned to glare at him. “No, I’m on the floor surrounded by water because I’m trying to electrocute myself. YES, I’m in labor! Oh, God.” She cringed as another wave washed over her. 

Brian ignored his embarrassment and, with Eleanor’s help, managed to stand Claire on her own two feet, bent over in agony as she was. Wrapping her arms around both their shoulders, Brian and Eleanor led a stumbling and groaning Claire out of the bathroom and rested her on the green suede couch just outside of it. Once down, Claire took advantage of the sofa’s length and stretched out, clutching her chaotic belly. 

“Oh! This hurts. This fucking hurts!”

Ridiculously, Brian—hoping to be a world renown doctor—was stuck stupid staring down at his incredibly uncomfortable friend. It took Eleanor practically shaking him like a ragdoll to knock him out of it. “Brian! Go get the others! Bender especially, go!”

Nodding like an idiot, he turned tail and stumbled down the creaky, narrow corridor, through the lofty front foyer, then burst through the double doors to the chapel. Halfway up the aisle, Brian bent over and clutched his knees, trying to get the words out. 

“Claire….Cl—Cl—aire….sh—she…” 

Bender pushed through the small throng that had gathered around him, a wild look on his face, in his eyes. “What about Claire?! Where is she?” Brian may have still been struggling to catch his breath, but Bender ran out of patience. Taking him by the biceps, he shook Brian much the same way Eleanor had a few minutes earlier. “Brainiac! Where. The fuck. Is she?!” 

Brian reached an arm behind him and pointed. “B—by the t—toilets. She—she’s in l—l—labor.” 

As one, everyone gasped. Brian just managed to pick his head up in time to witness John throw a deadly glare in Andy’s direction and run out of the chapel. 

As Jackie placed a gentle hand at the nape of Brian’s neck and another flat against his stomach, steadying him, as the others were piling out of the room, Andy blanched ghost white.  
**  
He was going to fucking kill Sporto. 

Not for the first time, as John ran, ran, and ran through the winding corridors and narrow alcoves of this fucking cathedral, he pointlessly mourned his knife. The one he’d had back in Shermer. He’d gotten it back after Allison snagged it, but broke it a few months later trying to hurl the blade into the wall like in all those kung fu movies. 

He had to get a new one. And then use it on Andy. 

Okay, he (probably) wouldn’t actually kill him, but Jesus Christ, John was so angry, he was seeing red. And not Claire’s pleasant shade of red, either. He was a fucking bull, ready and willing to use those horns Dick once bragged about. 

'I knew it. I fucking knew something would happen!'

He’d asked him. Practically fucking begged him to change this goddamned rehearsal. Even had John thinking he was just being some hovering, overprotective spaz. And look what had happened! Look! 

Finally, finally, he glimpsed Eleanor’s form at the end of the hall he was currently running down, waving her hands in the air. He just managed to stop before he plowed into her. “Where’s Claire?!”

“Follow me!” 

Eleanor led him to a small alcove off that same corridor. Claire was splayed out on a suede sofa against one wood paneled wall beneath a—and he couldn’t fucking believe this—“Don’t worry, be happy!” poster. 'My ass.' Pushing past Eleanor, he raced to the sofa. John didn’t realize his hands were shaking until he lowered himself to his knees.

“Claire!” he exclaimed, gripping her hand. “You’re in labor?!”

Claire turned her head to stare at him. “Obviously. Why does everyone keep---Ahhh!—asking me that?!” 

“But you’re over two weeks early!”

“Tell that to your spawn, John. Oh, shit. Oh, shit!” With her free hand, Claire splayed her fingers over her engorged stomach. “It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. It’s like someone is punching me inside of my stomach.”

Before he could respond to that odd mental image, everyone else rounded the corner in an overexcited mob. Jackie was at the head, and when she stopped short, everyone behind her collided like dominoes. John would’ve found this incredibly amusing in literally any other circumstance. 

Jackie knelt at Claire’s side, placing her own hand on her heaving abdomen. “How far apart are the contractions?”

Claire closed her eyes and cringed. “Oh, about fifteen minutes each? Maybe longer.” 

“And how long do they last, typically?”

She laughed humorlessly. “Sixty seconds, give or take, but it feels like a small eternity.” 

Bender had never felt more helpless in his life. All he could do was grip her fingers in one hand and clear the sweaty tendrils of red hair from her forehead with the other. He should have read up more about the labor process! He hadn’t reached that fucking chapter yet!

Nodding succinctly, Jackie half spun and barked to the collected, partially uncertain mob. “Someone call an ambulance. Now!”

Both Allison and a blanched Sporto lurched out of the alcove. There was a bank of payphones nearby. 

John scowled watching the Sport scamper away. 'Yeah, you better run, asshole.' 

Jackie turned back to Claire. “Okay, you’re in active labor. Surprising, since you’re a first-time mother. Usually early labor lasts longer. Huh. I should report this in my medical diary…”

As one, Claire and Bender yelled, “Jackie! Focus!” 

The brunette blushed and shook her head to clear the cobwebs. “Right. Sorry! Okay, Claire, you said your water broke already?”

Claire nodded. Her ivory skin was all mottled and red. Perspiration beaded along her forehead. John reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a red bandana. Quickly, he wet it in the adjacent fountain and began blotting her forehead with it. “There was also this gross pinkish stuff. I don’t know if that happened first or the water. It was all so sudden.” She blinked up at him and smiled shakily in thanks. 

“Okay, that was your mucus plug,” Jackie said. John cringed. He’d read about the mucus plug in one of those articles. There were pictures. “Your cervix should be dilated four to six centimeters.” 

Basketcase and Sporto returned. John could hear the phone beeping off its hook. “The ambulance is coming,” he huffed. “Gave them the exact…address.”

“It’s from Shermer General,” Allison explained, looking a cross between apologetic and pained. “Sorry, I know you guys go to some fancy-schmancy birthing center or whatever but no one wants you to pop out the kid right here. Sounds dangerous.” 

John agreed with the decision. The snowstorm may have stopped, but there was still plenty of the white stuff piled on the ground. Plus, the roads were treacherous with slippery black ice. As much as he liked Doc, he wasn’t going to risk getting into an accident riding back into Chicago. 

Claire offered them both a shaky thumbs-up. “Th—thanks, guys. Oh, Jesus, another one.” 

Bender could do nothing but clutch her hand as the contractions tore through her body. He hated this. He felt so damn useless. There had to be *some* way to make Claire more comfortable.

Carol Clark stepped forward. “Dear, try to sit up. The pain from the contractions lessened with each of my boys when I stopped lying prone.” 

'I could help with that!' Gently, John helped her into a sitting position, then ran and fetched a big, black, sturdy pillow from one of the backrooms, still left over from the Halloween haunted house. He set it behind Claire, who leaned back against it with a sigh. 

“You’re right,” she said with a nod. “That is better. Oh, I’m thirsty…” 

'I can help with that, too.' John rushed off to the cathedral’s kitchen, pulled a cup from the pantry, and filled it with cold water. He was very careful on the return not to spill its contents. 

Claire took the cup from him, again smiled her thanks, and downed the water. 

John moved to stand behind the arm of the couch, massaged her shoulders. “How you holdin’ up, Sweets?” 

She gazed up at him, cringing through another contraction. “Could---yeaughh!—be better.”

Sporto, who’d been staring at his feet, stepped forward. “The, um, ambulance is on its way.” 

John’s ensuing glare could’ve literally pinned the Sport to the wall, and he knew it.

The ambulances’ sirens sounded beyond the building, and Stubbie went to go greet the EMTs, to let them know where they were. When he returned, he was flanked by two men in all white and another trailing behind, dragging a stretcher. For an instant, just an instant, John had flashbacks to men in all white arriving to his house after his old man beat the shit out of his ma for burning his turkey pot pie and running her out of the place on a stretcher just like that one, blood dripping from her nose, bruises around her eyes, cuts on her knuckles…

Bender cleared the cobwebs. That was then. Claire wasn’t his ma—this wasn’t Kentucky!—and she definitely wasn’t barely conscious with blood trickling out of every orifice. 

'Thank God.'

Claire was groaning as two of the men lifted her from the couch while the third held the stretcher steady. Helpless, John just sort of buzzed around the prone, moaning Claire like a fucking bee. “C—careful! Don’t drop her.”

One of the men met his eyes, a smile on his face. “Ah, you must be the dad. Don’t worry, it’s under control. Done this a hundred times.” 

This still did not abate John’s apprehension. He continued to jump from one booted foot to another, twittering, until the EMTs began to wheel her into the back of the ambulance. Without having to be asked, he climbed in after her, claiming one of the steel benches beside the stretcher. All he could do was take her hand in his. Her skin was cold. He blew on her fingers, then rubbed her hand between both of his.

He really, truly felt useless. 

Evidently, Claire read the look on his face—which he knew was somewhere between vulnerable and afraid—and squeezed the hand locked in hers. “John, it’ll be okay. Plenty of women have endured this. It’s not a big deal.”

'Plenty of women aren’t you'. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, but all he managed in reply was a shaky smile. 

Distantly, he heard some of the others shouting that they’d be right behind them. John barely paid them any mind. His sole focus was Claire, who, at current, was gritting her way through another contraction. 

The ambulance deftly navigated through the wet suburban Chicago streets. Twenty minutes later, it pulled into the emergency drop-off area, the large, squat, brick edifice that encompassed Shermer General looming over the comparatively small ambulance. Popping out of the vehicle almost as one, the EMTs carefully assisted Claire out of the stretcher and into a black steel wheelchair. Bender clutched the handles. He would not allow anyone else to touch her right now. 

Er, except the doctors, of course.

He pushed her inside the ER, yelling like a maniac. He didn’t even remember or comprehend most of what he said. Something along the lines of “Pregnant…two weeks early…help!” And the nurses broke into action and took her away, wheeling her down the corridor to his left. 

Bender hesitated a moment, twitching on his feet like, well, like Big Bri, before remembering that this wasn’t the fucking 1950s and he didn’t have to wait outside for “modesty’s sake”. Jogging, he caught up with the nurse pushing Claire’s wheelchair and led her into a private room (he figured they must’ve known who she was). Inside, he and the nurse assisted a cringing Claire out of the wheelchair and into the bed. Then, the nurse took her vitals—blood pressure, pulse, temperature—hooked her up to a fetal monitor and, eh, used some gauze to swab her “lady parts”.

“Okay, Miss Standish, your contractions are about 13 minutes apart,” the nurse explained, making a notation on her chart. “You are in active labor, so you will need to remain here in the hospital.”

“What about the kid?” John asked—or more like demanded, barely taking a breath between words. “How is it? Is everything…”

The nurse smiled patiently. “Everything looks fine so far. Your baby’s heartbeat is strong and steady, as well as its pulse. But more than a week early, it’s hospital policy to leave the monitor connected.” 

Claire raised her hand. “Uh, what if I have to use the bathroom?”

“Just press the call button on your room’s remote and whichever nurse is on duty will assist you.” 

John still wasn’t satisfied. “And Claire? Everything’s okay? Blood pressure, pulse, everything?”

The nurse patted his arm. “First time father?”

John blinked. “Um, yeah.”

“I thought so,” she replied with a chuckle. “Everything looks good, I promise.”

“Um.” Claire spoke up from her bed. “Hi, I’m in ridiculous amounts of pain. Can I get an epidural?”

“I’ll inform the anesthesiologist immediately.”

John knew from the same 'Parenting' article, which he’d read after Claire joked that she would need a lot of drugs, that requesting an epidural could take at least a half an hour. Not for Claire Standish, though. A Standish didn’t have to wait for anyone. An anesthesiologist appeared in five minutes, a bright smile on her face. She was wielding a particularly gnarly-looking needle. John eyed it with suspicion. 

“Is that it? The epidural, I mean?” he asked, staring at that needle with an eagle’s eye. Ironically, he fucking hated needles. He’d used to carry around a sharp as hell switchblade, but Bender was a pussy when it came to needles. He was the first to admit that. Last year, Claire had made him get the flu shot because flu season was purported to be a bad one and she wasn’t “going to flutter around while you indulge in Man Flu, John”. He had literally yelled when the pharmacist pricked him with that thing.

The anesthesiologist tested her huge fuckton needle. “Yep. This’ll take the edge off, Miss Standish.”

He watched, grimacing, whilst the doctor jammed that thing into Claire’s spine. Relieved, she sighed and sank further into the pillows. “Thank God.” 

The anesthesiologist chuckled. “If you need more, just let me know.”

Just as she left, voices echoed outside Claire’s private room. Voices he recognized. He crossed the threshold and approached the overexcited group. He steadfastly avoided Sporto’s stare. 

“How is she doing?” Allison. 

“Is the baby okay?” Jackie. 

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “She’s resting. Just had that epidural thing, so it doesn’t hurt as much. The kid is all right so far, but since she’s early, they have to keep monitoring her.” 

“Will Claire, um, be okay?” 

Bender turned and narrowed his eyes at the Sport. On the seat nearest him, Allison flattened her lips and looked down at the floor. Approaching him—slowly, like a lion corners its prey; he’d seen it on 'Wild Kingdom'—John chuckled darkly. “Well, I sure as fuck hope so. But, you see, Sporto, she’s over two and a half weeks early. Which means she has to be closely monitored. Especially since her water already broke.” 

Andy swallowed audibly, and he, too, looked down at his shoes. The Sport felt guilty. Fucking good. 

“What, um, what do the doctors think?” he muttered without meeting John’s eyes.

A muscle flexed in Bender’s jaw. “I don’t fucking know because the only doctor we’ve seen so far is the anesthesiologist. I know what *I* think, though.”

Brian and Jackie, Allison, Eleanor, and Stubbie met each other’s eyes and shifted in their seats. They all knew when Bender was pissed. Most of them had been on the receiving end of his ire. And boy, was he pissed. 

Andy said nothing, but did raise his head. Also good. John wanted to look him in the fucking eye. 

“I think,” he continued, taking another few steps toward him. This made Sporto back up against the wall. Not for the first time, John was grateful that he was the taller one. “That dragging her ass around that fucking church caused her to go into early labor. That is what *I* think.” 

Sporto looked torn for a second, then his eyes hardened. He was going to fight him on this. No fucking problem with that. “You have no proof of that!”

John laughed through his nose. “Aside from her *actually going into labor* after walking up and down that damn aisle a dozen times!”

Stubbie stared down at his lap. Good, John was pissed at him, too. 

He was pissed at damn near everyone. 

Andy craned his head, licked his lips, squinted his eyes. “She…she told me it was fine! That it would all be fine!”

'Fucking incredible'. “Of course she said it was fine! She didn’t wanna be a bother! She didn’t want her pregnancy to get in the way of your…” Frustrated, John gripped his hair at the roots. “AGH!”

Sporto’s expression lost all its tension. Too fucking late. “Bender, I—“

“I asked you to change the rehearsal. I fucking asked you! A few times,” he interrupted, not caring that his outburst was drawing attention. “Hell, I begged you. ‘If I thought Claire couldn’t handle it, I’d just cancel.’ Well, congratulations, she couldn’t fucking handle it and now she’s in labor before she should be in labor and being monitored and…FUCK!” 

John was quaking in his boots. He really needed to hit something.

Sporto tried one more time. “Bender, man, I just---“ 

Overcome with anger, desperation, and worry, John shouted and punched the wall beside Andy’s head. He hardly felt the ensuing sting, the redness in his knuckles. “If something happens to her,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

And then he stomped back to Claire’s room.  
**

Andy had seen Bender angry before. Clearly, he had. He’d observed the guy across the spectrum between mildly annoyed and Danger, Will Robinson. But this, this…the only time Andy had witnessed this particular brand of fury, this anxiety, this outright panic and hopelessness in the guy was five and a half years ago in detention, when Andy had called his bluff about being abused at home and, in response, Bender showed him the scar on his arm. He’d been so angry then, yelling, throwing books to the floor, and pulling himself up the stairs to get away from all of them. 

That, too, had been Andy’s fault. 

Following Bender’s departure, Andy inhaled deeply and clutched the sides of his head. “Oh, God.”

Ally approached him instantly, rising out of the plastic chair she’d been sitting in and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. As usual when she touched him, his body relaxed, but only marginally. 

“Andy…” she trailed, looking at him with concern plain in her beautiful brown eyes. 

Andy shook his head, but lowered his arms. “He’s right. Oh, fuck, he’s right. I should’ve rescheduled. I should’ve canceled. Something. I should’ve—“ 

“Claire said she’d be fine,” Ally reminded him. “You didn’t know. And this may have nothing to do with it.” 

But Andy wasn’t listening. As much as he loved Ally, he didn’t deserve to be comforted. “It’s my fault. He asked me a few times, but I was so fucking stubborn…” 

From one of the waiting area chairs, Stubbie cleared his throat. “It’s on me, too, dude. I…I guess I got carried away.” 

“I should’ve rescheduled,” Andy repeated. He was staring at the opposite wall beyond Allison’s head, the closed door that led to Claire’s room. “I should’ve…fuck.”

Allison bit her lip, silently continuing to rub his arm. Gazing at him in open sympathy. 

“If anything happens to Claire,” he continued, hating himself more and more with every passing second. “I will never forgive myself.”

“Nothing will happen to her,” Ally tried to hollowly reassure him. “She’ll be fine.” 

Andy clasped her hands. “You don’t know that. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.” 

Then, he crossed the small, rectangular waiting area and lowered himself into a seat. Bending over, he buried his face in his hands. 

He felt rather than saw Ally claim the seat beside his and begin to rub gentle circles on his back.

Her presence was, once again, the only thing that anchored him.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: It amuses me that Brian would be the first person to locate an in-labor Claire, on the women's bathroom floor.
> 
> Note 2: Kay, I obvs did research for this. My friend and his wife just had a son on Christmas Eve, a month early from her due date. He had no problems and was able to go home within two days. However, back in the early 90s, when my mom had my brother two weeks early, he had to spend five days in NICU. It really all depends on the child. 
> 
> Note 3: It also amuses me that John would be afraid of needles.


	22. Chapter 21: She's Having A Baby (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I started reading the "Song of Ice and Fire" books recently. I'm nearing the end of the second one. In the part where Arya is traversing through the countryside with the other potential "boys" of the Night's Watch, they pass a bunch of lords. Most of them have normal GoT-ish names. Yanno, Manderly, Yorick, Eldric, all that GRRM nonsense. One, however, stuck out. His name? LORD SHERMER.  
xD I was reading it and literally said "Lord SHERMER?!" out loud. Martin is a Hughes fan, I am convinced.

Chapter 21: She's Having A Baby (Part 2)

John looked angry when he stomped back into her room, his heavy Docs echoing on the tacky gray linoleum floor. He was raking his hand through his hair repeatedly, a definite sign that something had happened. Claire opened her mouth to ask, but he only shook his head, which she knew meant he didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, he approached the side of her bed, where the fetal monitor was keeping track of Untitled Standish-Bender Project’s vitals. 

'Why didn’t we think up names? Or look at a baby name book? Something? Ugh.'

It wasn’t like the baby could be called Untitled Standish-Bender Project for the rest of its life. 

John might call their child that, though, as it grew up. She could see him getting a kick out of that.

Right now, however, he looked as if he was this close to committing something-icide. 

“John,” she started, placing her hand on his lower arm. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He wasn’t. Her boyfriend jumped when she touched him. But he only nodded his head in false reassurance. “I’m good, Queenie. It’s *you* I’m worried about.”

Although she thought his concern for her was sweet, it wasn’t necessary. Claire smiled and squeezed his wrist. “Don’t be, John. I’ll be fine. The baby will be *fine*. Everything will be *fine*.” 

Sighing, he sank into a cheap nylon chair with a torn back and grasped her hand in his. 

'Jeez. For how much my dad donates to this place, you’d think they could get better seating.'

She was just saying, was all. 

Two hours passed. John had not moved from his chair. The nurses bustled in and out, checking her vitals, the baby’s vitals. At one point, they put a catheter in her because they didn’t want her to get up to use the bathroom post-epidural—both mortifying and painful. She never wanted a repeat performance. It was like having sex with a straw. And she could see the bag that held her pee. Claire cringed and subtly covered it with her foot. 

John hadn’t noticed. He was locked in his own world, watching the miniature Sony nailed to the wall but barely paying attention to the 'Dallas' rerun. Claire could easily identify the shielded, faraway look in his eyes. 

She, too, could read him like a book. 

Just as she was opening her mouth to say something, get his attention, there was a clatter, the door to her room opened, and in poured the rest of the Club, with a few extra members. Allison and Eleanor were beaming, Jackie was smiling her soft smile, Brian looked a cross between excited and awkward, and Andy and Stubbie remained lingering in the back of the squad. Andy was staring at the toes of his Reeboks. 

“How are you feeling?” Jackie asked, stepping ahead of the crew. 

Claire smile-winced in response. “I’m all right. Could do without the boxing match going on in my stomach, but…” 

John half-smirked and flipped the channel to a boxing match. 

Eleanor clapped her hands. “Are you excited? You must be excited! Oh, my God! Before you get out of here, you’ll be a mom!”

Claire’s smile-wince transformed into a genuine beatific grin. She curled her arms around her enormous stomach, just barely able to link her fingers. 'Oh, I can’t wait to meet you!' 

“And you’ll be a dad, John,” Brian added. His blue eyes were round like UFOs. “Wow. I never r—really thought about it like that.”

Predictably, John snorted beside her. He had his feet propped up on the edge of her bed, his boots touching the plastic footrest. “That’s generally how it works, Brainiac.” 

Andy shuffled forward, a mite timidly, Claire noted. Odd. “Um, so you and the baby are all right? You’re doin’ all right?”

Claire shrugged as best she could in her position. “Pretty much. Both our heart and pulse rates are fine. I just hope they stay that way.”

Andy cleared his throat. “And, ah, what did the doctor say?”

John, the Princess couldn’t help noticing, was glaring daggers at the Sport. Andy was deftly avoiding the icicles that had become his eyes.

Also odd. 

“We haven’t seen an OB yet,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “I’m getting annoyed; I hate waiting.” 

That got them both smirking lopsidedly. Claire was notorious for walking out of appointments or meetings if they kept her waiting longer than thirty minutes. And that was if she was in a good mood. 

“Well, uh, let us know,” Stubbie stuttered, also avoiding John’s glare. 

'Okay, what’d I miss?' 

“We just came in here to see how you were doing. They’re kicking us out,” Allison explained with a sneer. “’It’s past visiting hours, children’. Screw you, Nurse Ratched. I’m no child.” 

Claire laughed. “That’s fine. We’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

As the group trod out of the room, one by one like they were doing drills, she again observed John glaring daggers at Andy’s back. Making a frustrated noise, Claire leaned over as best she could—which wasn’t very much; she felt like a turtle caught on its back—to regard him, her lips pursed. “Okay, out with it.”

John started, tearing his gaze away from the disappearing throng back to her. “Out with what?”

Claire pooh-poohed his question. “Oh, come on! Andy won’t look at you, he kept staring at the floor, and even Stubbie was weird around you. What’s going on, John?”

He was about to continue to deny that there was nothing, in fact, “going on”, she could tell by the hardened slant of his eyes. But, then, he sighed and inched his chair closer to her bed. “Sporto is a fucking jackass,” he mumbled while looking down at his hands.

Claire wrinkled her brow. “Andy? Why?”

*That* got his attention. John whipped his head up, stared at her for a beat, and laughed without humor, a distinct knife-edge lilt to it. “Why? Claire, you know why! You went into labor early, and it’s all his fault.”

“John—“

“I asked him,” her irate boyfriend continued, rising from the chair and pacing the length of her room. His words grew angrier and angrier with every breath. “I fucking asked him. Hell, I begged him. ‘Change the date, I don’t know if Claire can handle it’. ‘She’ll be fine, dude, she told me so’. And look what happened!” 

Claire sat up more in bed, wincing as another contraction tore through her. At least with the epidural it wasn’t as bitingly horrible. “John, we don’t even know that had anything to do with it.”

John’s expression remained flatly resolute. 

“Besides,” she continued, shrugging again. “I *did* tell him everything would be fine. Repeatedly. That’s what Dr. Devers said. And everything *will* be fine, John.” 

He crossed the room in three long strides and sank down in the chair beside her again. “It better fucking be. Or I’ll kill him.”

Claire shook her red head. This was about more than what he was saying, she could tell. Resting her hand atop his gloveless knuckles, she bowed her head until she could look him in the eye. “John, what is this really about? Come on, I know there’s something else.”

John pursed his lips stubbornly, but she was an immovable statue. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared him down with just as much tenacity as he. Two could play at this game. 

It was why when she and John fought, the verbal sparring tended to be a blockbuster. On paper, they may have seemed about as different as two people could be. But, underneath—very shallowly underneath—she understood that they were quite similar in many ways. One of those ways? Their shared ability to be as stubborn as a whole barnyard of mules. 

He indulged their staring contest for a minute but ultimately broke. As she expected. “All right, fine. Um…” Again, he rose from the chair and shuffled a few steps forward before turning around to regard her. “Okay, I never told you this, but…I was supposed to have a brother.” 

Once more, Claire’s brow furrowed. That had not been expected. She didn’t really know *what* she figured he’d say, but that definitely wasn’t it. “What? When?”

John’s shoulders bobbed beneath the black t-shirt he wore. His mannerisms said 'It’s all cool' but the tense lines around the corners of his mouth and eyes spoke otherwise. “I don’t know. I guess I was about…four or five?” 

“So…what happened? And why didn’t you tell me before?”

Taking a few steps backward, he leant against the wall beneath the TV, hands in his jeans pockets. “I guess I blocked it out. I’ve never really thought about it until…well, recently, I guess. Yeah, my ma got pregnant again, and…long story short, she ended up going into labor early and losing it. Him.” 

Claire’s teeth sank into her lower lip, worrying the skin between them. She could tell that this confession was affecting him more than he let on, and she wished that she could get the hell out of this bed and go to him.

The damn catheter made that impossible. 

“I’m sorry, John,” she entreated instead, clasping her hands over her rounded stomach on top of the blanket. “I didn’t know. When did she go into labor?”

Traversing the space again, he came to sit beside her once more. “At seven months.”

Claire blinked. “Well, I’m sorry, John, I really am. But…” Leaning forward, she covered the top of his hand with her own, smiling gently. “…your mother was nearly two months early. I’m only two weeks.”

John scowled. “Two and a half.”

“Okay, two and a half,” she allowed with a shake of the head. “That’s infinitely more dangerous. And, what’s more, that was—what? The early ‘70s? Neonatal science has progressed a lot since then.” 

Her wonderfully stubborn as nails boyfriend did not look very appeased. She squeezed his hand in hers. “John, I’m going to be fine. We’re going to be fine.” Rubbing her stomach with her free hand, she added, “Everything is going to be *fine*. I promise.” 

Okay, technically, she couldn’t exactly promise that, not being an obstetrician and all. But she was fairly confident that she and Untitled Standish-Bender Project would make it through delivery without issue. She certainly didn’t feel off or anything. 

John exhaled, raked a hand through his thick hair, then leaned forward and kissed her, long and slow. As always, his unique John-scent enveloped her like a cloud, a cross between sandalwood, citrus, and a hint of tobacco. 

He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes for a moment. “Okay. But I’m keeping careful watch.”

Which was why when, twenty minutes later, a nurse dressed in blue scrubs came by and demanded he leave, he basically told her to shove it. “I’m not leaving.”

The nurse huffed. The stethoscope around her neck bobbed with the movement. “Sir, please don’t make me get security.”

“Still not leaving.” 

Claire giggled softly at how sturdy and certain he looked. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he wore the narrow-eyed visage of an eagle. 

The ponytailed nurse sighed. “Okay. Securit—“ 

“I don’t think you want to do that,” Claire managed to interrupt before she could finish calling out for security assistance. “I, like, really, really don’t.”

If anything, the nurse looked amused. Amused! And condescending! Oh, she was *so* getting her pay docked. “Oh? And why is that?”

Beside her, John was struggling not to grin. Keeping her calm and collected but “I mean business!” expression on her face, she gestured toward the end of her bed with her chin. “Read the name on my chart, please.” 

The nurse looked confused, but did as she directed, trotting confidently to the foot of her bed. The little smirk about her lips floated away and, after a second or two, she slowly gazed up at her. “Standish? As in *Richard* Standish?”

Claire smiled. “He’s my father. And considering that he’s one of this hospital’s biggest donators, I doubt you particularly want to piss him off. Or his daughter, who is about to have a baby and needs her boyfriend here.” 

The nurse in the blue scrubs flexed a muscle in her jaw. She wanted to argue, Claire knew. She could see it on her face. But doing so could very well end up with her suspended or worse, so all she said was “I will get you a lounge, sir” and scuttled off. 

After she left, John allowed his grin to overtake his features. “The things you can get away with just by saying your name. It’s like a damn superpower.”

Claire scoffed, picked up the remote, and changed the channel. She’d had enough of boxing, thank you. “Yeah, the power of nepotism.”

The nurse arrived again with the red lounge chair with its nylon cushions and hard, blond wood frame. John scrunched his nose up at it. It looked about as comfortable as a medieval torture device. “Will there be anything else?” she asked, her tone not at all pleasant. 

“Yeah,” John said, leaning back against the chair and plowing his head in his hands. “More pillows and blankets.”

“And,” Claire added, sliding the pink plastic carafe from the table beside her bed. “More water. Please.”

The blue scrubbed woman gave a “Damn these kids!” put upon sigh and swept out of the room. 

They waited a few seconds before dissolving into laughter.  
**  
That night, John slept on the window seat. He’d tried that crazy lounge chair, gave it a good forty-five minutes, then gave up and slinked across the room to the bench inside the window. This, at least, was cushioned and actually comfortable, if a bit narrow. He’d fallen off rolling over twice so far. 

Their own Nurse Ratched returned a few times to check on Claire’s and Baby Bender’s vitals, often waking her up without a word. And she was prone to just sauntering in and flipping those damn florescent lights on, making them both want to murder her. If she did it again, John was snapping. 

At eleven, the doctor finally arrived. The OBGYN or whatever. Dressed in scrubs and that trademark white lab coat, he introduced himself as Dr. Atwater, performed a pelvic exam on Claire, checked how dilated her cervix was—almost seven centimeters—and promptly swished out of the room. He’d come check on her again in an hour, he said. 

Fast forward to two AM, and John was woken up again, but this time not from Nurse Ratched. Instead, notable groaning roused him from sleep. And it was coming from Claire. 

Immediately awake, John threw the blankets and sheets off himself and padded in stocking feet to Claire’s bedside. Lowering himself to his knees, he grasped her hand in his and softly called her name, trying to wake her up. “Claire? Claire!”

Eyelids fluttering open, she gazed up at him through cloudy dark eyes. A cringe of pain was about her lips, and her forehead was furrowed in discomfort. “Ooh, God…”

“What’s wrong, Princess?”

Claire grimaced and rested her free hand on her heaving stomach. “I think the, um, the epidural wore off or is wearing off or…’cus it hurts a lot. A fucking lot.” 

“Okay.” Bender reached for the remote and pressed the call button, a silhouette of an old-timey nurse in a red bubble. 

All he could do while they waited was push her sweaty hair off her forehead. Where the fuck was the nurse?!

She arrived a few minutes later, a different nurse than Ratched, this one dressed in pink. “What can I do for you guys?”

John glanced down at Claire, who was cringing through a contraction. “Uh, her epidural wore off. She needs more pain killers or something.”

The nurse nodded and retrieved an anesthesiologist. This time, the doctor placed a clear mask over Claire’s mouth and nose. He blanched, and the woman explained, “Laughing gas. Don’t worry, it’s not strong enough to knock her out, but it’ll relieve the pain.”

John did not like how that mask looked on her, lying prone in bed and so damn pale. It made her look sickly, and that terrified him, even if the doctor had assured them both that laughing gas was a routine method of labor pain management. 

He still didn’t like it. Not one bit.

John held her hand until she fell asleep again. Then, reluctantly, he slinked back to his makeshift bed. 

At 6:30 that morning, he was jolted awake once more, this time by the arrival of Dr. Atwater. A tall, youngish dude with a close-cropped beard, he was dressed this morning in light blue scrubs. Claire was quietly conversing with him as he stood over her bed. 

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Bender jumped down from the window seat and approached them both. Atwater was now lowering himself to a squat position and examining Claire’s spread legs. He had to keep telling himself that this was a doctor so he wouldn’t beat the shit out of him. 

Doc was an old man. This guy was maybe a decade older than them, if that. 

He didn’t like it, but he stayed quiet. 

“Hmm,” Atwater’s faceless voice between his girlfriend’s fucking thighs hummed. '"Hmm?!" What "hmm", jackass?' “Yep, I think it’s—“

John couldn’t handle the suspense anymore. He was nothing if not impatient. “What? What?!”

Claire stared up at him with a half-annoyed, half-amused quirk of the lips. She patted his arm and turned back to the doctor. “Well?”

Atwater perked his head up. He turned off his little flashlight thing and smiled. “Well, Claire. Looks like you’re almost nine centimeters dilated. We should get you to the delivery room.”

John’s eyes widened nearly out of their sockets. “Already?!” he croak-screeched, sounding remarkably like Brian. He cleared his throat. “I—I mean, doesn’t labor last for, like, a day or two? Or something?”

Atwater chuckled. No, John did not particularly like Dr. Atwater. Why, he couldn’t exactly say. Maybe it was his age. Maybe it was that dumbass thin beard on his chin. Maybe it was because he was a young dude who’d glimpsed Claire in a place only he himself should ever see. 

“In some cases,” Atwater continued, disappearing into the bathroom to wash his hands. “In others, labor can be quite short. I’ve had a patient that went into labor and delivery in under ninety minutes.” 

Two nurses walked in and began transferring Claire to a stretcher. When she lay prone, she smiled up at him and squeezed his hand as he loomed anxiously over her. “It’ll be fine, John. Stop worrying.”

'Yeah fucking right'. 

He jogged to the front of the room behind the stretcher as the doctor and the nurses were wheeling her out and toward the delivery room at the end of the corridor. Just as he was exiting the private room, he almost ran smack into Allison, who was leading the rest of the motley crew up the hall from the reception area. 

“Jesus,” he exclaimed, barely stopping short of running Basketcase down. “What the fuck are you guys doing here? It’s—“ John glanced at the face clock nailed to the wall over his head. “—7 AM.”

Allison shrugged. “We didn’t wanna miss the emergence of Untitled Standish-Bender Project into the world.” 

“Well, you’re in luck,” he replied, walking backwards toward the end of the hall. “Claire’s about to deliver. Now. I gotta go!” 

And he turned on his heel and ran down the florescent-lit hallway. Vaguely, he could hear the sound of shoes smacking against the linoleum behind him, but he paid them no mind.

Whilst Claire was being wheeled into the delivery room, Bender raced into the nearest bathroom to change into the crap Atwater had given him. Paper everything—pants, top (he wore this over his t-shirt; the thing had no back!), and some weird blue hairnet thing. 

As John walked out of the bathroom, he observed that the rest of the Club had taken seats in the waiting area. “Did any of you call Claire’s parents? Um, it wasn’t even on my mind.”

Brian stood from his seat. “Er, Jackie and I tried a—a few times. Their housekeeper said they were in New York for some benefit.” 

John rolled his eyes. Figured. But he certainly wasn’t going to look a gift Nora in the mouth. 

Suddenly, beyond the closed double doors of the delivery room, Claire’s distinct shriek rang out, causing even the other people in the waiting area to look up. “STOP! DON’T TOUCH ME! NO ONE TOUCHES ME WITHOUT MY SAY-SO!”

The gathered members of the Club cringed as Claire’s outraged cadence continued. “I’M NOT DOING A THING UNTIL MY BOYFRIEND’S HERE! WHERE THE HELL IS HE?! JOHN! FUCK’S SAKE!”

Allison broke out into huge belly laughter while Eleanor winced beside her. Brian looked a cross between amused and uncomfortable. The rest just avoided meeting each other’s eyes.

John smirked as he stretched that hairnet thing over his skull. “Ha. That’s my girl.” Then, he disappeared inside the delivery room.  
**  
Claire was not happy. Once in the delivery room—a cold, sterile rectangle she had to share with three other women about to give birth—the catheter was yanked out of her by the Return of Nurse Ratched (which fucking hurt like hell) and she was unceremoniously draped in this ugly cotton hospital gown with no back. All the nurses were fluttering about her, checking her vitals, shoving thermometers in her mouth, under her arm, pressing their ears to her stomach. Here she was in fucking agony with no more pain relief and the nurses were treating her like she was lawn furniture. 

She was *not* lawn furniture! She was frigging Claire Standish, damnit! 

When a nurse dressed in pink with her face hidden behind a medical mask shoved her legs further open, she snapped. “STOP! DON’T TOUCH ME! NO ONE TOUCHES ME WITHOUT MY SAY-SO!”

The nurse dropped her legs like they were on fire. Two others took a few steps back. Good. She meant business! 

One particularly brave nurse tried to reason with her. “Now, Miss Standish—“ 

Claire was having none of it. She shouted and screamed until her voice was raw, not entirely sure what she was saying. Something about not doing anything until John was by her side. The leftover effects from the pain meds were making her loopy. 

In a defiant move, Claire crossed her legs at the ankle. She was not pushing any baby out of any opening until she was good and ready, damnit. 

She also tried to ignore the grunts and moans of the three other women in the process of delivery. 'Oh, that sounds…not fun'. 

Claire’s heartbeat began to pick up, and the monitor beside her reacted accordingly. 

Finally, fucking finally, in sauntered said MIA boyfriend, donning the scrubs Dr. Atwater had shoved in his arms before having her rolled out of her room. One of those filmy blue nets covered his hair, which almost had Claire snorting in amusement, and he was in the process of straightening it—or possibly trying to make the thing look less dorky. 

Claire was in *no mood* for witty banter right now, however. “JOHN! WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?!”

The woman about to give birth beside her stared in her direction, along with her husband. Claire paid them no mind.

“Sorry, Princess,” he muttered in reply while walking to her bedside. “I had to put all this shit on.” 

“That hairnet thing looks absurd,” she couldn’t resist pointing out, flinch-laughing against the contractions. They were less than five minutes apart now.

John cringed and touched the top of his head. “I know. If anyone takes a fucking picture somehow, I’ll sic Pete on them.”

Dr. Atwater was in the midst of preparing Claire for delivery when she heard the double doors of the delivery room open again. Though the newcomer was dressed in dark blue scrubs with that same ridiculous hairnet covering his head and two more shielding his feet, Claire would recognize that face anywhere. She’d only been familiar with it since she was old enough to talk.

Beside her, John instantly recognized him as well. “Doc?!”

“Dr. Devers?!”

At the foot of her bed, Dr. Atwater gazed over his shoulder. The inexplicably present Dr. Devers was washing his hands in a nearby sink, then he snapped a pair of translucent rubber gloves over his hands. Beneath his salt-and-pepper mustache, the obstetrician grinned. “Well! If it isn’t my favorite couple! Are we ready to bring Baby Bender into the world?”

While Claire was preoccupied with absorbing more of the precious anti-inflammatory gas a nurse offered her, John voiced the very question that was foremost on her mind. “Doc! What are you doing here?”

The mask was lifted, and Claire coughed. “Yeah,” she croaked, bracing herself against another contraction as wave after wave engulfed her body. “This isn’t your—“ Cringe. “—hospital, right? You’re not even based in Shermer.” 

“I am not,” he confirmed, coming to stand over Claire’s bedside. “I got special permission from the Neonatal Department head as soon as John called me to tell me you were in labor.”

'He called Dr. Devers?' Claire craned her neck to gaze at John. He was smiling a tad sheepishly. “Called him last night after you went to sleep.”

The Princess smiled gratefully and squeezed his hand, the appendage he held loosely in his. She was actually rather relieved. As competent as this Dr. Atwater seemed, she didn’t entirely trust some stranger to deliver their child. 

“Dr. Atwater, thank you,” Dr. Devers said, shaking the man’s own gloved hand. “But I’ll take it from here.”  
**  
The last thing John expected was for Doc to come strolling into the delivery room like he owned the place. When he’d called the guy last night at about 9:45 after Claire drifted off, he certainly had not imagined that the man would take it upon himself to eschew protocol or whatever and make an appearance at Shermer General. He would not lie to himself, though. Having a familiar face deliver the kid, one who’d cared for Claire all throughout her pregnancy, was a lot more preferable to letting this other guy they’d never talked to until now do it. It wasn’t as if they both weren’t nervous wrecks already or anything.

Besides. Bender still didn’t like Atwater’s face. 

Atwater inclined his head and went to check on some other chick about to deliver. He didn’t like that Claire wouldn’t have been his sole priority, either. 

Fuck that.

Doc retreated to the foot of the bed and bid Claire to open the legs she had stubbornly clinched shut earlier. He grinned as she untangled her limbs. 

Following a brief examination, wherein the doc inspected those same lady parts, took her blood pressure, and gently pressed along the outside swell of her abdomen, Dr. Devers rose and turned off his flashlight thing. “Well, Claire. Looks like we’re just about ready. Er, will Richard and Nora be joining us?”

Claire wasn’t in *too* much pain to avoid scoffing with derision. “No. They’re at some event in Manhattan. Political thing. It’s supposed to be at the—Oh, Jesus Christ!—Waldorf, but I c—couldn’t get ahold of them.” 

John winced, but again, he definitely wasn’t going to look that gift Nora in *all* of the mouths. 

Doc patted her hand splayed on top of her stomach. “Well then. They’ll just be greeted with a little surprise when they get back to Chicago. Okay, we’re almost set. Just hang in there for another minute, Claire.”

Whilst Doc was conversing with one of the nurses, John did all he could to comfort Claire. Ease her suffering by a tiny margin, if possible. Again, he felt like a useless turd as he rubbed circles on her back, fluffed her pillows, and wiped the perspiration beading across her forehead. He wished that he’d had the foresight to bring her stupid stuffed panda toy, but he hadn’t exactly known that her water would break at that fucking wedding rehearsal. 

Thinking about *that*, and picturing Sporto’s face, John scowled.

Claire gazed up at him where she was lying in what Brainiac would call an “obtuse angle”, her head resting against the bleached white pillow. “John? You—“ Wince. “—okay?”

Bender physically cleared the cobwebs from his mind. Definitely not the time. Like, there could not have been a worse time to get lost in any thoughts other than getting through the next few minutes or however long delivery took. 

He smiled down at her, though it was shaky with the ceaseless nerves plucking at his heart, his pulse, his skin. His palms were sweating, and he wiped them discreetly on the side of his pants. “Doing fine, Cherry. How ya holdin’ up?”

An uneven grimace of agony twisted Claire’s pillowy lips. “Could be…be better.”

John could do nothing but again squeeze her hand. He felt like a helpless idiot. 

Doc returned to the front of the bed. One of the nurses pulled taut the curtains separating each…station or whatever they were for privacy. The curtains were patterned with yellow smiley faces. 

“Okay, Claire,” the doc began, pushing the paper facial mask he wore about his neck over his mouth. “We’re all ready. Do you feel like you need to push yet?”

Claire worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Oh, I—I think so. UGH! Yes, I need to push and I need to push now before I combust.” 

Doc and the nurses laughed. Then, the doctor lowered himself to a crouch once more. “All right, Claire. On the count of three, start pushing. One, two…”

The next few moments were an almost out-of-body experience for John. As though he were watching himself, watching these events, from up above, like fucking Cupid or something. On three, Claire pushed. And pushed again after a brief respite. And again, and again, until the whole of her face was as red as her hair, until her bangs were positively saturated with sweat, until she nearly broke his goddamned fingers as she squeezed and squeezed and squeezed them into oblivion. And he was attempting to ignore the digit-crushing torture to stumble over words of encouragement like that lady at the one Lamaze class they’d taken advised him, but, to his ears, he sounded like an awkward moron.

“AGHHHHHHH!” she screamed, fully sitting up now and throwing her head back like she was possessed. “Fucking GOD, this hurts so fucking much! I feel like a DEMON is about to explode out of me!”

“Sounds about right,” one of the nurses cracked, and John sneered at her. 'Save the wisecracks for when you’re *not* in the middle of a delivery!' 

Doc urged Claire to “bear down” and keep pushing. “It won’t be long now…”

“AHHHHHH! Fuck! FUCK! God damnit! YOU did this to me!” she yelled, glaring up at him with the hottest fire he’d ever witnessed in her eyes. With a powerful clench, her delicate fingers formed a tight fist around the material of the paper shirt and his real shirt underneath. “You ASSHOLE!” And then, in the same breath—“If you move, I’ll kill you!” 

Bewildered, Bender truly was frightened for his man parts. 'Holy shit…'

At the moment, Claire was like something out of 'The Exorcist'. Linda Blair had nothing on her. 

“Push, Claire! Keep pushing,” Doc urged from his crouched position.

Claire emitted something that was a cross between a sound only an animal could make and a very human screech. “After this,” she began, glowering up at him again with wide, reddened eyes. “We are NEVER having sex again! AGAIN!” 

John blanched, and from the foot of the bed, Doc chuckled. “Don’t worry, John. The ones who threaten that are usually back to see me two or three more times.”

Somehow, that had John blanching more. Did he have any blood left in his brain? “T—two or three?”

“Okay, Claire,” Doc said as a nurse briefly pressed the gas mask over her nose. “The baby’s crowning.”

“It is?” On instinct, John craned his neck to look. 

But the doc only met his eyes and shook his head. “I get quite a few fainting fathers, so do me a favor, John—don’t look.”

“I can handle it.” 'I think.'

“Trust me,” Doc laughed, returning to his original position. “No, you can’t. Claire, one or two more big pushes, and you bring your baby into the world.” 

Claire, however, was in the midst of shaking her head before the doc could finish his sentence. “I can’t, I can’t…” 

“Just one or two more, Claire.”

“Come on, honey, you can do this!” one of the nurses in burgundy scrubs trilled. 

“Almost out!” another one in yellow cried. 

For a second, just a second (all right, maybe two seconds) John was lost in his own world. He had momentarily gone deaf to every sound in the delivery room—the steady beeping of the monitors, the cursing and groaning spewing from Claire’s lips, the cautious counsel of the doctor and his team—and only saw Claire lying there shouting in slow motion, shaking her head back and forth, the sweaty strands curling about her face now a dark auburn instead of their usual ginger hue. 

It was only when the echoes of the room, of life, returned to him, listening to his Princess’s agonized screams of “I can’t, I can’t!”, that John snapped himself out of whatever reverie he’d fallen into, and the ability of speech returned to him. 

He needed to help her.

Moving ever closer to her bed, John crouched at Claire’s side and once more took her hand in both of his. “Claire. Claire!”

Her red head was still bobbing back and forth rhythmically. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, it hurts!”

Brushing a few tendrils of damp hair out of her out of her face, he continued. “Claire, listen to me. Do you, do you remember a few years ago when you thought I was stepping out on you, and you threw that phonebook at my head?”

That made Claire pause, as he knew it would. She turned her head to glare daggers at him. He could practically see the flames licking in her eyes. “Not exactly the happy memory I want to be reminded of right now, John!” 

But John wasn’t deterred. There was a method to his madness. And it really may have been madness to bring this up right now but… “I ducked,” he continued, recollecting that exact moment in the living room. “And it left a *fist-sized* hole in the wall? Do you remember that? I certainly do. You are a *lot* stronger than you realize, Queenie.” 

Thank God, Claire’s dangerous scowl began to melt. “Y—you think so?”

Bender nodded. The stupid hairnet inched further down his forehead. “It’s because you’re a redhead. You’ve got fire in your veins. Sometimes, you fucking terrify me.” 

Now, the sneer fully melted. “Really?”

Again, John’s head bobbed. It was sure as shit fucking true enough. She *did* terrify him sometimes.

Claire smiled through her duress. “Oh. That’s sweet.” Then, she faced forward, sat up a little straighter, and put on a newly determined slant to her gaze. “Okay. I’m ready.”

John breathed a quiet sigh of relief and rose from his haunches. He assisted Claire in sitting up ever straighter, wrapping an arm around her tense shoulders. “Come on, baby. You can do this.”

Doc counted to three again. “Push, Claire!”

Her whole face once more turned almost puce, and he was worried that she would pop a vein. “AHHHHHHHHH! Christ ALMIGHTY!”

“One, two, three. Push!” Doc repeated.

“Ahhh—AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!” 

And then, a cry sounded out just as Claire’s exhausted body smacked against the mattress, boneless. 

Doc held upright a pinkish-red shrieking *baby* amid the nurses’ cries of “Happy birthday!”, and John felt his eyes go so wide, he was mildly surprised they were still in his skull to begin with. 

“Oh. My. God.”  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Richard Standish is Shermer General's biggest donor. He has a wing named after him. It's in the trauma ward. When I go I go deep.
> 
> Note 2: Claire is #JustSayin
> 
> Note 3: Catheters are IRL used after an epidural, I did not know that until I did research. Anyone ever had a catheter? I've had a few post-surgery. They are HEINOUS and HUMILIATING. It really is like having sex with a straw.
> 
> Note 4: Claire peacing out after being forced to wait a certain amount of time is something I do at appointments. I give them more than a half hour but...don't make me wait 3 frigging hours, I have shit to do.
> 
> Note 5: As someone who's been in the hospital a lot, I can say with utmost confidence that, a lot of the time, patients are treated like lawn furniture. The nurses will stick you without your knowledge. Shove thermometers in your mouth. I'm deaf and I had one try to wake me up by legit screaming in my ear. Another one tried to give me the phone to make a call despite the two signs on either side of my pain describing me as "PROFOUNDLY DEAF". And she was with me all day. It's entirely frustrating.


	23. Chapter 22: What A Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm supposed to be working on an essay about the global response to terrorism. Naturally, I am avoiding it. I figure the best way to procrastinate writing is to write something else.

Chapter 22: What A Feeling

“Oh. My. God.”

Claire had closed her eyes the second her spent, shattered body smacked against the blankets and pillows, but they fluttered open upon hearing John’s mystified, dumbfounded utterance. 

For there, at the foot of her bed, Dr. Devers was holding her baby. *Their* baby. Who was squealing and crying and red and beautiful.

Claire felt her heart clench inside her chest.

'My baby!'

She watched while John, as the father, very nervously cut the umbilical cord with a pair of sterilized forceps, eyes still as broad as a Halloween decoration’s, lips slightly parted, as though he couldn’t entirely believe what was happening. The shrieking baby was given to the nurse dressed in burgundy to clean off as Claire pushed out the afterbirth, which the doctor inspected for abnormalities, then weighed it—her? Him?—on a small metal scale.

“Wh—what is it?” she asked, exhaustion dripping from her every nerve and extremity. But by the grace of God, she wasn’t going to submit to the sleep her body was begging for before she had a chance to meet her baby. 

John returned to her side, looking a bit less…spooked/amazed/staggered, and curled both hands around her shoulders. 

Dr. Devers lowered his facemask. Under his bristly mustache, he smiled widely. “It’s a girl. A beautiful little girl.”

'A girl! I knew it. I knew it all along!'

Tiredly, she locked eyes with John. “Told you.”

He laughed and kissed her sweaty crown. 

From the weighing station, the nurse snickered. “Not so little, Doctor. She’s eleven pounds, three ounces.”

Claire’s jaw dropped open. 'Holy Toledo!' “Oh my GOD!” 

Behind her, John chuckled. “I knew she was gonna be big.”

Dr. Devers shook his head. “Likely why you went into labor early, Claire. Baby Bender was ready to pop out.” 

“We were at a wedding rehearsal when Claire’s water broke,” John all but bit. Claire rolled her eyes, her every nerve ending tingling and throbbing. “She was walking up and down the aisle a bunch of times. Wouldn’t that have had something to do with it?”

To Claire’s relief, Dr. Devers just shrugged. “Maybe, but likely not. Your baby was just getting impatient in there. She knew that she was ready to greet the world. Who knows how much she would have weighed in another two weeks.” 

John clamped his lips together and glowered. Now, he had to apologize to Andy, and she knew that John enjoyed saying sorry about as much as he did a tooth drilling. In fact, the tooth drilling may have been more preferable. 

Claire patted his hand where it rested on her left arm and tried not to snicker. 

At last, the nurse returned with her *more than eleven pound baby* wrapped snugly in an adorable pink blanket, wearing a Just as adorable pink hat, and gently deposited her into Claire’s arms. Now, abruptly, she was completely awake, gazing down at this beautiful baby—their beautiful baby—with the little nose and the little fingers she’d glimpsed on the ultrasound machine and those little, round, wide open eyes! 

“Oh my gosh!” she cried. The baby wasn’t shrieking anymore, just sniffling, and the redness from her skin was beginning to fade. 

Claire’s smile had never been as wide as the very moment she looked down at the baby that had been growing in her womb for almost nine months. The baby that was here, now! Everything hurt—her head, her ears, her abdomen, and especially her lady bits (she was sort of afraid to discover what, exactly, those bits looked like right now)—but all she experienced was this immense sense of love and peace. 

'How can you love someone so much you just met?'

John’s hand uncurled from around her shoulder and, shakily, almost like he thought he was dreaming, ran a finger over the baby’s tiny clenched fist. Instantly, those little digits unfurled and grasped her father’s much larger one in her own. 

The sound that bubbled up inside him and spurt forth was something between a stunned laugh and an anxious croak. 

Craning her head a bit, she gazed up at him and beamed. He responded by pressing a kiss against her temple. 

Claire gazed down at their gorgeous infant, with her high forehead and tapered jaw and *dimples* and the smattering of barely visible freckles across the bridge of her nose and the beige skin and the broad toffee-brown eyes. 

“Isn’t she perfect?” she breathed. Peeking beneath the triangular pink cap, she noted tiny shoots of very red hair. 

“Yeah,” John replied, still sounding a mix of awed and terrified. “She is.”

Claire couldn’t control the soft chuckle whilst she gazed between her boyfriend and her baby. “She looks like you.”

He tore his stare from the swaddled newborn in her arms to regard her, his brow wrinkled. “You think?”

This time, Claire’s tinkling laugh was deliberate. “Look at her! She’s got your nose, your jawline, your skin tone, your cheekbones. Even her eyes are the exact same shade of brown as yours.”

John’s responding lopsided grin was doofy and endearing. “There’s some of you in there, too, Princess. I saw the red hair and the freckles. And she’s definitely got your lips. I would know.” 

Claire’s arms were too full of squirming newborn to effectively whap him for that last comment, but she shook her head and laughed through her nose anyway. 

Distantly, as if through a fog, she felt the bed shake a bit and inch forward. The burgundy nurse stood on her left while the yellow nurse claimed her right. Vaguely, she heard Dr. Devers tell her that they were moving them both back to her room, but Claire was scarcely paying any attention. The softly yawning infant bundle in her arms totally enraptured her. 

She knew she must’ve looked a horror, her hair a bird’s nest and her white skin all mottled and perspiration slicking across her forehead, but, for once, Claire didn’t give half a shit. 

John bent down beside her and rubbed her arm. “I’ll meet you in there, all right?”

Claire nodded, leaned up to press a lingering kiss to his lips, and let the doctor lead her away.

Lead *them* away.  
**  
Gazing down at his kid—*their* kid—John experienced a tangible wave of stupefaction mixed with terror mixed with an instant tenderness and connection that only tripled when those amazingly tiny digits curled about his pointer finger. He thought he would faint right there. So it was definitely a good thing that he’d heeded Doc’s advice and hadn’t peeked when the baby was crowning. 

When *she* was crowning. 

Yeah, okay, it was a girl and not the boy he had spent the last few months challenging Claire over, but he didn’t care anymore. She was beautiful and perfect. Fucking perfect.

Pointlessly, John wondered if his own old man had had these same thoughts running through his own head when he was born. Somehow, Bender very highly doubted it. 

His ma, though...maybe his ma. Maybe. 

After telling Claire he’d meet her in the room, he kissed her and headed for the exit doors. Once there, he abruptly halted, turned around, and approached Doc, who had just washed his hands again. 

John stuck out his own palm to shake the doctor’s hand. “Doc…thanks. And, uh, thanks for comin’.” 

He had never been very adept at—or even comfortable with—expressing gratitude. 

Doc quirked a corner of his mouth and shook his proffered hand. “My pleasure, John. Like I said, no one was going to deliver that baby but me. This is my third generation of Standish girls.” 

John grinned. “Still…thanks.”

The doc nodded once. “Just treat them both well—I know you will—and welcome to fatherhood, kid. It’s a wild ride!”

Then, he slapped his bicep and left the delivery room. 

Bender inhaled a deep breath, wiped the perspiration that had gathered on his forehead beneath the stupid hairnet, pushed open the double doors, and walked out into the waiting room. 

Instantly, as if they were all fucking Jack-in-the-boxes, all of the gathered Club rose from their seats. Older Sis Reynolds pushed aside the fashion magazine she’d been reading, and Lady Dork was practically buzzing in anticipation.

“Well?” Basketcase demanded.

John pulled the stupid thing off his head, drew a hand across his forehead again, and breathed, “Holy shit, I’m a dad.”

The motley crew broke up in whoops and congrats. The other people assembled in the waiting room glared at their antics, but no one gave a shit.

The Dork was the first to step forward. “C—congratulations, John!”

Lady Dork was next. “How’s Claire?”

“She’s good. Happy,” he replied, breathing a sigh of relief that nothing had gone sideways with the labor and delivery. 'Thank fuck'. “Exhausted, but…happy. She did a great job; I’m proud of her.”

And he *was*. He just may have been prouder of her than ever. Prouder than when some of her richie bitchy friends gave her shit after they went public in high school and she told them unequivocally to fuck all the way off. Prouder than when, after witnessing Dick lambasting him for whatever the hell reason, she promptly marched up to Vice Principal Dillweed and called him an officious asshole in front of the whole school. Prouder than the first time she stood up to Nora for him.

Because what Claire had done today…she’d brought life into the world. A life they had created. A life that was the size of a goddamned watermelon, being pushed through a part of a woman’s body that was about as big as a lime. 

Fucking incredible. He certainly couldn’t do that. 

Not that he was built for that particular...event. 

Basketcase was next. “So, what is it?”

John blinked. “Well, she didn’t give birth to a zebra, Al.”

The Dork cleared his throat. “I, um, I think Allison meant, er, is it a boy or a girl?”

Bender snorted in amusement. “I got that, Brainiac.” Smiling lopsidedly, he added, “It’s a girl. Claire was right. But don’t tell her I said that; she’ll never let me forget it.”

'And now I owe her 20 bucks.'

They all laughed, and then Eleanor asked how much she weighed. Again, John chuckled. “Eleven pounds, three ounces. Knew she was gonna be big.”

The group broke up in many gasps and “Holy crap’s!” Allison, in particular, looked a cross between amused and horrified. “She had to push *that* out of her…that?!” 

Bender nodded, not even trying to contain his smirk. “Like I said, she did a real good job. Though, I don’t think we’ll be having sex for a bit.”

That, predictably, had the Club groaning with the mental image John had deliberately put in their heads. 

Gazing over his shoulder, down the hall toward Claire’s room, he said, “I gotta get back. I’ll bring her out in a few.”

Just as he was turning toe to make his way back to the room, Sporto called his name. John cringed. This was the moment he had decidedly not been looking forward to, one he had hoped to avoid for at least a day or so. If there was one thing Bender hated doing, it was apologizing. He’d gotten a bit better at it over the years—“Love means never having to say you’re sorry”, his asshole—but, with Claire, more often than not, his expression of regret came with flowers and/or a box of chocolates. The local florist knew him by name. Claire accepted contrition via chocolate as easily as the next chick. 

Somehow, he highly doubted Sporto would be placated with a box of Godiva. 

Sighing, he turned around and cautiously approached the Sport, standing in a corner of the waiting room while the others chattered excitedly. Andy cleared his throat. John cleared his throat. He had no idea how to start this conversation.

Sporto raked a hand through his blond hair and met Bender’s eyes, sort of hesitantly lifting his head from the toes of his Reeboks. “Look, man. Um…you were right.”

This confession had definitely not been what he was expecting. 'I was?'

The Sport continued. “I should’a changed the rehearsal. I was being a stubborn ass, and…well, you know.”

Sporto had as much difficulty apologizing as he did. To him, at least. 

John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Doc said that didn’t have much to do with it. More likely, she was just ready to pop out.”

He watched Andy absorb this information and bob his head. “Still. It was shit. I should’ve just scrapped the whole thing.”

All Bender mumbled was “It’s all right” beneath his breath. He hated this. He also hated being wrong. But if John in his wrong-ness had allowed Claire’s labor and delivery to go off without a hitch, then fuck it. He’d be wrong.

“So,” Sporto continued, looking just as awkward as John felt. “We cool?”

John hesitated for a second, then nodded and slapped Sporto’s outstretched hand. “Yeah, man, we’re cool.”

The tension noticeably slipped from Sporto’s shoulders. “Glad Claire’s okay.” 

“Fuck, so am I.”

Jockstrap accosted him again as he was about to head toward Claire’s room. “Bender, if I did anything to make Claire—“

John interrupted him. He was really anxious to get back to her. Them. Both of them. “Nah, Jockstrap, it’s cool. Doc said the kid was just ready to come out.”

Stubbie, too, abruptly lost the strain around his eyes. “Thank God. In that case, congratulations, dude.”

“Thanks.”

John all but turned tail and ran up the hall. He could hear his heavy Docs slamming against the linoleum. In fact, he was so concentrated on getting to them, he raced right past the actual room and almost fell on his ass putting on the breaks and spinning around. An old detention flashback flared in his mind. 

He slowed his pace as he entered the private room, walked through the short foyer, past the bathroom near the front door—then halted. For there was Claire, sitting up in bed with the covers around her legs and a clear smile on her face as she gazed down at the pink bundle suckling from her (still very large) breast. 

She was feeding her. For some crazy reason, the idea had never occurred to him, that she’d want to breastfeed. 

John stood at the entrance to the foyer, struck dumb. 

Claire glanced up, met his wide, rather astounded eyes, and smiled ever broader. “Hi. Come on in.”

It took her words to make his body remember that it had feet. 

John claimed the chair beside the bed and slowly lowered himself into it, never taking his eyes off the scene before him. He was back to the “Oh, Gorsh!” persona, gawking like a stunned idiot; there were practically pink elephants dancing around his head, like that creepy scene in 'Dumbo', but he hadn’t even been drinking. 

If he was drunk, he was drunk on happiness. Contentment. Fucking peace.

Love. 

He knew love, of course. He was crazier about his redheaded goddess more than he could possibly say. But this…this was different. This kind of love…this instant connection…was a feeling he never in a million years would’ve expected to experience. 

John cupped the kid’s head, the one she couldn’t even lift by herself yet, and asked, quite stupidly, “You’re…you’re feeding her?”

'Fucking moron. Obviously, she’s feeding her.' 

He’d ask himself what the hell was wrong with him today, but he absolutely *knew* what was wrong with him today. 

Claire, though, just nodded without taking her eyes off the infant. “The nurse showed me how. You know, how to position her and stuff. Didn’t take much prep work; she went right for it.”

John vaguely recollected learning about birth and breastfeeding and all that in health class (one of the few he hadn’t slept through, anyway). They watched a video and everything. Probably the only reason he’d been paying attention was, well, boobs. At the time, he’d made a crack about boob guns that had had the class tittering. But…it was different, now. He wasn’t ogling her or anything. He was just watching his daughter eat. 

Daughter. Shit, he had a daughter. That was amazing and petrifying all at the same time. He had no idea how to raise a little girl. Would there be hair bows and tea parties and crap? Would he have to read 'Cinderella' to her as she drifted off to Dreamland? Or take her to see some Disney princess movie? 

Eh, whatever. He’d figure it out. Claire would help him. He could build her a dollhouse or something. And just because she was a girl didn’t mean that he couldn’t teach her to do John stuff. Like take her to wrestling matches or play video games with her or teach her how to use a BB gun. 

That last one would take some convincing. John could not imagine that Claire would be cool with that at first. But he’d get his way. He had tricks up his sleeve. And in his pants. 

John could feel the red downy hairs sprinkling her head where her hat had slipped backward. “Does…I mean, does that hurt?”

Claire shrugged as best she could in her position. “Feels weird. Kinda like I’m being vacuumed.” 

He laughed and continued stroking the kid’s head with his index finger. The same finger her little hand had curled around earlier. 

'Jesus. She’s like a fucking miracle.'

John already knew, unequivocally, that he’d commit highway homicide for this kid. Especially if it was Dick. He’d happily get rid of Dick for her. 

As Claire gazed down at her—*their baby*—she laughed through her nose and shook her head. “I can’t get over how much she looks like you. She’s, like, the girl version of you.” 

Bender smirked. “Girl version of me, with your lips and hair. I’m gonna have to buy a gun.” 'Wonder if I can borrow Lady Dork’s Remington.' 

Claire rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Wait ‘til she starts dating.”

John’s smirk abruptly vanished. Claire giggled merrily. “You mean when she’s thirty? She can start dating in…” He mentally did the math. “…2019.” 

“Right, okay.”

“Until then, I’ll lock her in a tower like Rapunzel,” he added, nodding succinctly. “But we’re getting her hair cut. She ain’t lowering it for some douche to climb.”

Claire snickered and fixed their still nameless baby’s hat. 

“I am serious,” he claimed, and Claire laughed harder. “I know boys, Claire, I am one.” 

Slyly, she glanced askance at him, one corner of her mouth quirked. “So…you don’t want her to date a boy like her father, then?”

John’s eyes rounded. “Like me? Hell no. *Hell no*. Assholes like me need to stay the fuck away from her.” 

He pictured himself, or, rather, a future version of a dude that was just like him, just like he’d been as a teenager. His perpetually horny *punk* self, hitting on his then teenaged daughter, offering her some pot, taunting her for being a virgin (because she *would* be a virgin, he’d make damn sure of that), *fucking sticking his face between her legs…*

Honestly. It was incredible that Rich hadn’t had him iced the day Claire first brought him home. 

Claire grinned down at the nursing newborn. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” 

In response, John huffed. Claire’s grin broadened. 

Once the kid was done nursing, Claire lifted her across her collarbone and shoulder, supporting her head, and gently patted her back until she emitted a rather loud burp.

Lowering the infant, she gazed down at her with a raised eyebrow. “Did that come out of you?”

“Yeah, that’s definitely my kid,” Bender chuckled, reaching forward to rub her back. 

Claire clicked her tongue against her teeth. “That’s disgusting,” she said to the baby, adopting a higher octave voice he knew a lot of people used to talk to babies. “You’re gonna be disgusting, aren’t you?”

In response, the kid gurgled. 

Claire watched him rub circles on the infant’s back for a moment, then turned to regard him directly. “Do you want to hold her?”

John could feel himself going momentarily pale. Hold the baby? The only time he’d ever held a baby had been when he was nine and one of his neighbors unthinkingly passed him her six-month-old so she could light a cigarette. Again, he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling panicky. What if he dropped her? Or didn’t position her right? She looked so fragile. 

Swallowing audibly, he rasped, “C—can I?”

Fuck. He sounded like a little boy asking Mommy if he could have dessert after dinner. 

“Of course!” his princess cried. Her eyes were smiling. “She’s yours, too.”

John blinked. “She is, isn’t she?”

And then, Claire very carefully passed him the eleven pound, three ounce newborn in her arms, passed her directly into his, and his palm went to automatically support her head because he knew she couldn’t lift it on her own, and she smelled so sweet and new, like a spanking new car only *better*, so much better, and she was making baby noises and staring up at him with eyes that matched his exactly. 

It was a good thing he was sitting down because he felt as if he would both fly and faint. 

“Holy shit,” he murmured, staring down at her, at the tiny fingers and chubby baby cheeks. 

“'Shit' is going to be her first word,” Claire decried dryly. “Mark my words.” 

John chuckled, but he was barely listening. He was enraptured by this little human they had made one night in March after a wee bit too much alcohol. “She’s looking at me.”

“Well, obviously,” Claire began. He could hear the smile in her voice. “She knows you’re her dad.”

'I am. I *am* her dad.'

'Fucking hell, why is this just hitting me now?'

He’d always technically known, for certain, but, for some reason, it had taken actually holding his kid and locking eyes with her—his eyes—for that to sink in. 

The baby cooed, and, again, little fingers curled around his much bigger one. 

Feeling confident enough to rise on two legs, John strolled with the newborn a few paces toward the window. “Well, kid—you were an accident. We certainly did not mean to make you. And learning that you were coming was petrifying. But, hey…you’re a pretty awesome accident.” 

“Serendipity,” Claire added behind him. “A fortunate accident.”

John nodded, then frowned. “We’re not naming her that, are we?”

When she laughed, it sounded like bells. “Oh, hell no.”  
**  
Bender brought Still Nameless out to the waiting room as Claire was napping after her exhaustive ordeal—namely, delivering a baby the size of a Thanksgiving turkey. He was still very careful taking her down the hall. Deliberately, he walked slow, physically sneering and growling at anyone who dared complain. John was taking no chances. It wasn’t like he was hefting books or a dinner plate or one of Mrs. L.’s bizarre ceramic monkeys. 

As he entered the waiting room, once more, all the Club rose in tandem, the girls racing forward immediately while the guys approached behind them. 

Older Sis Reynolds was the first to speak. Well, shriek. “Oh, my God! She’s gorgeous!” 

'Damn right she is.'

“Hey, John, she l—looks like you,” Big Bri added, grinning down at the squirming infant all rolled up like a burrito. A pink burrito. 

Wasn’t that some sort of euphemism? Whatever. 

John chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what Claire says. She can’t get over it.”

Allison was stroking the kid’s soft cheek with a single finger. And yes, she *had* sterilized her hands in preparation, thank you, her response when Bender glared at her. “Oh, she’s so cute! How’s Mama doing?”

“Sleeping,” he replied as the baby gurgled. “She really needs it. It sure as shit wasn’t easy birthing this kid.”

Off to the side a bit, Sporto chuckled. “I see you’re not, uh, curbing your language in front of your offspring.” 

John grinned. There was no lingering animosity there. He didn’t have the patience for it, the *room*. His mind was full of exactly two subjects—Claire, and little Question Mark Bender right here. “It’s a work in progress. Claire says the kid’s first word will be 'shit'.”

Allison snickered. “She ain’t wrong. Jeez, she’s big for a baby.” Turning to look over her shoulder at the Sport, the Basketcase added, “Uh, how much did you weigh at birth, Andy?” 

“Seven pounds, about,” Sporto answered, half-smirking. “Don’t worry, Al. I don’t think you’ll be pushing out a kid the size of a large bichon frise when it’s our turn.”

Bender would’ve been offended, except…yeah, a large bichon frise was about right. 

Poor Claire. 

Question Mark opened her eyes, and Lady Dork was the first to gasp. “Wow! She has your exact eyes, John. Most babies have blue irises when they’re born.”

John smiled broadly down at Question Mark, who was staring up at him through light eyelashes. “She’s not most babies. She’s awesome.”

Which she was. And he’d teach her how to continue to be awesome. 

Jockstrap, standing beside Sporto, leaned forward to gaze down at Question Mark in his careful cradle. “Kid’s a pretty thing. I always thought all babies looked alike. I can definitely tell who this one belongs to.”

As if on cue, Question Mark burble-burped, and they all laughed. 

“That helps, too,” Jockstrap added, plainly entertained. 

“Beautiful kid. Congrats, man,” the Sport said, slapping Bender’s shoulder. “Even if she does have your ears, poor thing.”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, fuck you,” John sneered, but he was still grinning. He felt as if he’d been wearing this smile all day. It was actually beginning to hurt. 

“Does she have a name yet?” Jackie asked, making goo-goo faces at the kid.

John shook his head. “Nah. Still deciding. Claire wants something French, but all her choices sound fussy and pretentious. She actually suggested Françoise. With the little curly thing on the C and everything.” 

The Sport sniggered. “Françoise? What’d you say to *that*?” 

“Nothing,” he replied. “I was too busy laughing. Never laughed so hard in my damn life.” 

Later, after the sun had gone down and the rest of the Club had been kicked out for the night, Bender slouched in that same chair beside Claire’s bed. She was still asleep; she’d been sleeping all day, not that she didn’t deserve to slumber as long as she damn well wanted. Before him, the miniature Sony softly blared one of the few movie selections that the hospital was willing to pay for, 'Three Men and A Baby'. It was either that, 'Howard the Duck', or that bizarre 'Dark Crystal' movie with the sad puppets. 

He was not sitting through Howard the fucking Duck, watching Lea Thompson get seriously turned on by what amounted to an anthropomorphic Disney character costume. And the puppets in the 'Dark Crystal' just freaked him out. 

John found himself cackling whilst Steve Guttenberg and that mustachioed dude from 'Magnum, P. I'. attempted to dress the baby in a diaper clearly way too big for her, then wrapped her in duct tape to keep it on. He could see himself doing that. 

Glancing over at his own baby, who was lounging in a padded plastic crate, he watched her wake up from her nap and start squirming, making all kinds of baby noises. 

Climbing out of his chair, he spanned the room, his stocking feet padding against the floor, and very carefully picked the precious cargo up out of her makeshift bed. A cardboard “It’s A Girl!” nameplate taped to the front of the crate literally read “? Bender”. 

Beneath his breath, John chuckled and brought the kid back to his seat. Balancing her in his cautious embrace, he looked down at her while she gazed up at him in turn with those round, curious eyes of hers. And of his, he figured. 

“We gotta think up a name for you,” he said, shaking his head a bit in amusement. “It’s not like you can go around being Question Mark. What do you think? Got any ideas?”

In response, the kid burbled, pursed her lips, and yawned. 

“All right,” John answered as if she had actually spoken. “We’ll just put Blurrft on the birth certificate. Blurrft Bender, what do you think? Has a nice ring to it, no?”

The kid blinked, then raised one of her tiny arms, fingers fisted. 

Bender laughed outright, forgetting for a second to lower his voice so Claire could continue to zonk out uninterrupted. “Copying my mannerisms already, are you?” 

Question Mark drooled in reply. John wrinkled his nose and reached for a tissue in the Kleenex box on Claire’s bedside table. He wiped her mouth, then quickly tossed the balled-up tissue in the wastebasket. “Gonna have to get used to being presented with arbitrary gross fluids.”

He shuddered at the thought of having to change her diaper for the first time. 

The baby was looking up at him, eyes so full of trust, squirming in his arms and resting her ludicrously small hand on his much larger wrist. John sighed, thinking about his own dad holding him like this. He had to have picked him up at some point, right? Idly, ridiculously, he wondered how soon after his birth the guy started viewing him as a human punching bag. There wasn’t a time he could remember when his father wasn’t an abusive fucklord. 

Bender stared down at the kid—his kid—and hesitantly slipped one hand out from under her so that she could grab his finger again. Instantly, tiny digits formed a fist around the knuckle of his index finger. 

Inside, he could feel his heart swell. Like the goddamned Grinch gazing down at Whoville. 

John gave a closed-lip smile. “All right, kid. I’m going to make you a promise, okay? So just bear with me.” He exhaled through his nose while she stared up at him almost expectantly, like she actually understood his intent. “Look, I ain’t good at declarations, but know this—I swear I won’t ever be like my old man. Um, your grandfather.” 

John closed his eyes, picturing Jake’s face in his head. Irate, reddened with drink, scarred from too many drunken bar fights. His lids popped open, and he shook his head to clear the image. “I won’t be him, all right? Jesus, I’d throw myself off a roof before I ever hurt you or your ma.” 

Just the mere notion made him physically sick. 

“I know you have no idea what I’m talking about,” John continued whilst Question Mark blinked up at him. “Or even know what I’m saying. But it’ll all make sense to you later on. Maybe.”

That was if he ever grew the balls to tell her all about dear, old Gramps. 

When she was older. Much older. 

Beside him, Claire audibly stirred in the hospital bed. He watched her eyelids flutter open, confused for a second about where she was. When she’d apparently remembered that, oh yeah, she’d just given birth, his redhead sat up in bed with a wince about her lips and rested her arms over the itchy brown blanket she’d been given. 

“Welcome back, Sweets,” he said, balancing the baby a bit higher. “How ya feelin’?” 

Again, Claire grimaced and lay a hand against her forehead. “Oh, God. It hurts. Everything hurts. My head. My stomach. My legs. My…well, you know.”

John grinned. “Vagina, Miss Standish?”

Claire’s expression went flat. “I am too numb and tired to whack you with a pillow. Just pretend I did.” 

He laughed. Claire scooted over to the edge of the bed, gazed down at their kid, their extraordinarily quiet kid, and her formerly wincing mouth stretched into a delighted smile. “Oh! Hi, baby! I didn’t know you’d be here when I woke up!” She glanced at John. “They didn’t come to take her to the nursery yet?”

“Not yet, just left the crate.” He gestured to the plastic rectangle atop a wheeled cart in question, frowning a bit. He was not really looking forward to her being scooped up to the nursery. 

“Works for me.” Cringing, a hand rose to palm her heaving chest. Not that he had noticed or anything. Or was staring. “I think I need to feed her.”

Furrowing his brow, Bender asked, “How do you know? That you need to feed her, I mean.”

Once more, Claire grimaced. “All this milk comes down from…I guess the mammary glands? And pools right behind my nipples. I feel like my boobs are sandbags.” 

John carefully passed her the baby and, again, watched mesmerized as she fed her using only what God had given her. 

A little while later, Doc popped by to check on Claire and the kid. He performed some kinda postnatal examination on both of them, checking their heartbeats and pulse rates and temperatures and blood pressure scales. The baby had a wee bit of fever, but before either of them could have simultaneous heart attacks, Doc assured them that this was normal for newborns. 

“Everything looks good,” Doc pronounced from between Claire’s splayed legs. “Normal.”

From the bed, Claire scoffed. “I think your version of good and mine are a bit different, Dr. Devers. My lady parts feel like they are on fire.”

John snickered at Claire’s continued reluctance to say 'vagina'. 

Doc grinned and switched off his miniature flashlight. “You’ll have that sensation for a few more days at least, Claire. Especially since, ah…”

“…she’s the size of a prize-winning squash?” Claire finished dryly, then craned her head to glare at John. 

Doc chuckled. “Yes. That. But don’t worry. The stinging pain should lessen as time goes by.”

Not satisfied, Claire asked, “And will I require vaginal rejuvenation in the near future? Because I am certainly not living with a broken…that.” 

“Doubtful,” the doc replied, wiping his hands with some Purell. “Everything should go back to normal soon enough. You may even notice some spotting in your underwear. That’s also fine. As long as you’re not heavily bleeding or secreting odd-smelling fluids, you’re golden.”

Beside him, his redhead wrinkled her nose at the words 'odd-smelling fluids'. “Gross. Being a woman is gross.”

Bender nearly spat out his Coke. 

Hands clean, the Doc turned to regard the slumbering infant and the basket she occupied. Tapping the cardboard “It’s A Girl!” nametag with his knuckles, he said with amusement, “Might want to give her a name. May be hard to procure official documentation later on without one.” 

“Yeah,” John replied after taking another sip of his Coke. “We’re working on that.”

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Untitled Standish-Bender Project was always going to be a girl. I wanted John to have to peer into some of his past exploits a bit, which I know quite a few fathers do when they have daughters.
> 
> Note 2: Bender and I have "hating to apologize in any situation" in common. For me, it's like pulling teeth. 
> 
> Note 3: That quote from "Love Story" always gets me xD If you fuck up, you better say you're sorry or you're sleeping in the doghouse tonight
> 
> Note 4: It's 2020, she's already started dating xD That baby would be thirty by now and a fellow Millennial. Welcome to the club, here is your "I'm woke" button, and your "It's lit, fam" t-shirt.
> 
> Note 5: My mom told me she watched "Three Men and a Baby" after she had me in 1987. No confirmation on whether any of my uncles duct taped a diaper on.
> 
> Note 6: Claire is right. Being a girl *is* gross. I also did research on what happens post-delivery. Doctor usually gives an exam, and there may be brief spotting for a few days. I am putting more effort into this than my actual assignments.


	24. Chapter 23: Sweet Child O' Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating earlier than usual because I won't be around this weekend. Work, babysitting, and then more work. In that order.

Chapter 23: Sweet Child O' Mine

Once Dr. Devers left, Claire decided that she and John were going to come up with a name for this child, no ifs, ands, or buts. She was putting her foot down, damnit! 

They would absolutely not leave here without legally putting something on this baby’s birth certificate. She recalled her old high school friend, Ashley, who’d graduated the year before her. She’d had a baby a little over a year ago, one she and her boyfriend couldn’t agree on a name for, and ended up taking the child home totally nameless. They continued arguing for two weeks. She wanted something classic like Elizabeth; he insisted on naming her after one of his favorite movies. Unfortunately, that movie was 'Star Wars', and he wanted to call her Leia. 

They ended up settling on Leah. 

An hour later, she and John lingered at a standstill. Claire wanted something sophisticated and, if possible, French, and he wanted something more…John. 

Wide awake now, their still nameless child rested comfortably in her lap, swaddled in a pink blanket. Claire’s arms supported her where she sat up in bed, John on the other side of the room leaning against the western wall with one hand buried in his jeans pocket while the other leafed through an ancient-looking baby name book. 

A French baby name book. 

“Claire, all these names sound ridiculous,” he huffed while perusing the contents. 

Claire rolled her eyes. “They can’t *all* sound bad. French is a beautiful language! There’s gotta be something in there you like.”

Annoyed, her boyfriend slammed the book shut. “Nope. Nada.” 

“What about…Henriette?” she suggested, glancing down at the baby currently blinking curiously up at the ceiling. “Or Aurélie?” 

In response, John busted out laughing. He was bent over clutching his stomach and beating his palm against the edge of her bed. Claire was not amused. “That was a good one. Do another.”

Once again, the Princess wished her hands were free to throw a pillow at him. “Fine. Then, what are *your* ideas?”

John tossed the book on the bed and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know my choice.”

Claire’s expression went deadpan. “I am absolutely *not* naming our daughter Zeppelin.” 

'God, I hope he’s not serious.'

He snickered. “Why not? Could be cool.” 

“A Zeppelin is a *blimp*, John!” she cried, still not completely sure of his sincerity. It was often she couldn’t tell with him. “A blimp! That’s a great idea. Call our child what amounts to Blimp Bender.”

John’s gaiety increased. Claire shook her head and sighed. “There is one name I told myself as a kid that I would call my future daughter. I wrote it down in a diary when I was, like, eight.”

Clearly skeptical, one of his dark brown eyebrows rose. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Clementine.”

If anything, John hooted all the more. “Oh, thanks. I really needed this.”

'Good God, he has no taste'. “And what is wrong with Clementine?”

Her boyfriend gawked at her like she had a screw loose. It was possible. The lingering effects from the pain meds, particularly the laughing gas, had her feeling a bit loopy. But Clementine was a lovely name! She was sure about that. “It’s a fruit, Claire!” 

Claire pouted. “It’s a classic!”

“It’s a fucking orange,” he bandied, looking at her like she’d just sprouted alien antennas. “Plus, everyone will call her Clem eventually, which sounds like Phlegm.” He winced. “Or worse, Clam.”

The Princess would’ve thrown her arms in the air in exasperation if they weren’t occupied with a eleven pound, three ounce bundle. “Okay! God. I didn’t know you’d be so picky.” 

Bracing one foot against the wall, John snorted. “Now you know how it feels, Queenie.” 

Claire sighed as their still anonymous infant squirmed in her arms. “Fine. On the count of one to three, we each say our favorite names.”

John nodded once, and she counted down. On three, she uttered “Katherine” while he said “Spike”. 

Jaw unhinging, Claire croaked a noise of derision. In an alternate universe, she’d claim that she couldn’t believe he would put forth Spike of all the choices in the world, but this was not an alternate universe, and she wasn’t at all surprised. “I am in no way naming her Spike!”

A wide smartass grin overtook John’s features. “Why? She’d be the most badass kid in school. No one will mess with a little girl named Spike.” 

Claire shook her head and gazed down at the infant in her lap. “This is your dad.”

He cackled in reply. 

Exhaling once more, Claire hefted the burbling infant over her shoulder and reached for the discarded paperback. Leafing through its musky, yellowed pages with one hand while balancing the baby with the other—she was already getting to be quite adept at that; maybe it was a “new mommy” superpower—she scanned the list of names, trying to zero in on one that was French but not too French. She supposed. 

She *would* find a name they both liked. And, if that didn’t work, Claire would just use her veto power as the one who’d carried this kid for nearly nine months and then endured hell to deliver the oversized spawn.

While she was doing that, John interrupted her thoughts, for once not sounding like a kid playing a game of Cops and Robbers. “We could name her after my grandpop.”

Claire frowned and glanced at him over the top of the book. “Well, John, your grandfather’s name was Kirk. I don’t think there’s a feminine version of Kirk.”

She knew that John’s Grandpop Kirk had been the one member of his family that he could always rely on—at least until he passed in the early 80s. Grandpa Kirk had meant a lot to him. If there was a conceivable moniker she could pass onto their daughter to honor him, she’d happily acquiesce. 

A corner of John’s mouth ticked upward. “His middle name was Daniel.”

Claire furrowed her brow. “So…Danielle?” 

Unthinkingly, she paged through the book until she reached the D section. Danielle was French, derived from the Greek name, Danae. 

Braced against the wall, John shrugged. Claire placed the paperback face down on top of the bed, then cautiously lowered the baby to her chest, instantly forming a cradle with her arms. “Danielle, huh? What do you think, honey? Do you like it?”

As a response, the infant just blinked and waved her chubby arms around. 

A chuckle echoed from across the room. “I think that’s as much a seal of approval as we’re gonna get, Sweets.” 

They settled on Danielle Jane—Jane after Claire’s own departed grandmother, the one on her father’s side, who wasn’t ridiculous. 

The redhead pressed the call button to summon a nurse with the birth certificate, and get the baby’s—Danielle’s—finger and footprints. She glanced down at the little girl in her arms and breathed, “Finally! You have a name, sweetie! You’re not just Blank Bender anymore.”

John guffawed. “I was calling her Question Mark in my head.” 

“Well, now she’s the Baby Formerly Known as Question Mark.” 

“We need to put that in her room somewhere.”  
**  
Allison was not really a morning person. 

Hell, she wasn’t exactly an afternoon person either. And now that she was out of school, and only teaching every other day at the local Y, she was taking complete advantage of her newfound free time—mainly by sleeping. On the days she had off, she’d be luxuriating in bed until at least eleven AM. And then she’d get up and do some errands, then return to her apartment in Millennium Park and promptly fall into a coma in front of the TV by four thirty. Like an old lady. And she loved her little routine, because it meant that she could stay up until three in the morning doing whatever she liked, whether that be watching a movie, painting, or playing Pac Man. 

Andy, who was always up by nine at the absolute latest and asleep by midnight, could not comprehend her body’s schedule. Just another thing her fiancé wrote off as an Ally-quirk. 

He only objected when he was sleeping over—which was most nights—and the TV in the living space blared the theme music from 'I Love Lucy'. 

So, the fact that Allison had hefted herself out of bed at the crack of dawn on each of the three days Claire lingered in the hospital was testament to how much she loved her friend. She sure as shit wouldn’t do this for Lenore. 

“Al? You ready?” Andy called through her bedroom door. He, obviously, had been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from the moment he woke up and slid on his trusty Levis. 

Allison scanned her closet, feeling a lot like Claire. It was way too early for her usual Ally façade, so she ended up just throwing on some gray leggings, a navy sweater, and a pair of dirty brown Converse. She didn’t even bother combing the bush of hair on top of her head. Instead, she threw it in the gray scrunchie she always wore around her wrist.

Out in the living room, Andy was clutching the “new baby!” gifts they’d bought for little Danielle, who was only little in comparison to the largest pumpkin at the patch. Allison took one of the smaller bags from his grasp, slipped on a coat, and out the door they went. 

At Shermer General, they met up with Brian and Jackie, who were brandishing their own presents wrapped in pink tissue paper. Allison just hoped they had not gotten the same thing; that’d be embarrassing. 

The hospital was decently sized, so the four of them had gotten turned around a few times (once even ending up outside the morgue in the basement) before they found Claire’s private room, which she knew was reserved only for those with the best health insurance. Allison rolled her eyes and gestured for the others to go in ahead of her; her shoe was untied. 

Bent over out in the hall, she heard Andy belt out, “Hey, new parents! Guess who’s--oh, God, I’m sorry.”

'Now what?'

Bender’s deeper voice, dripping with disdain, reached her ears next. “Turn around, Sporto. You, too, Brainiac.”

“Sorry” both Andy and Brian muttered in unison. Allison rose on her Converse and hesitantly trod into the room…

…where a topless Claire was laughingly attempting to cover herself with the sheet with one hand while balancing the baby over her shoulder with the other. Brian and Andy were spun around, their faces tinged crimson.

Allison snickered. Jackie just shook her head, arms laden with the gifts Brian had unceremoniously dropped with a squeak upon glimpsing Claire without a shirt. “Boys! Breastfeeding is completely natural. I don’t know why so many people have a problem with it.” 

Splayed out on the window seat, John scoffed. “The only thing I have a problem with is these two freaks seeing Claire’s boobs.”

In the bed, Claire was still giggling. The sheet was around her chest, and she used one arm to prop up the infant and the other to pat her back like she was sponge-painting her. “It’s okay. I’m all covered.” 

Andy and Brian very cautiously turned around. Allison’s gaiety increased. 

As Danielle burped—'Definitely a Bender, ain’t she?'—Andy and Jackie deposited individually wrapped packages on the edge of the bed. Out the corner of her eye, Allison took notice of the bobbing “It’s A Girl” Mylar balloon someone had left—probably Josh when he came to visit the day before. 

“Ooh! Presents,” Claire cried, gently depositing the baby in Bender’s waiting arms. Ally was always a little floored at how his whole face seemed to lose all its tension when he held her. 

Wincing as she reached for one of her and Andy’s packages, Claire scowled and leaned back against the pillows whilst Allison retrieved it for her. Claire did not appreciate being catered to. At least not in this circumstance. 

Inside Package Number 1 was to be Danielle’s first toy, a stuffed pink bear with a little jingle ball inside its cottony bear stomach. When Claire presented it to the infant in her boyfriend’s embrace, she blinked up at it and reached for its ears with chubby fingers. 

“You know, when I was born,” Bender began, eyeing the bear as though it would start talking. “My gramps got me this big ass dinosaur in a leather jacket.” 

Claire rolled her eyes up at him. “John, she’s a girl.” 

He shrugged as best he could while holding onto a baby. “So, we’ll get her a pink dinosaur, then.”

Andy gave her one of those multi-colored Fisher-Price xylophones. Bender groaned. “Thanks, Sporto. It’ll be great fun listening to Dani pound the bejesus out of that thing.”

Andy crossed his arms, half-smirking. “Dani?”

“That’s what he’s calling her,” Claire explained as she opened yet another gift, this one from Eleanor—a pillow in the shape of a smiling camera. “Oh! This is so cute! *Danielle* will love it.”

“I am reserving Danielle for when she is in trouble and I have to call her whole name,” Bender grinned. “And if she’s anything like me, she’ll be in trouble *a lot*.”

Ally sniggered. “Oh, please. If she’s anything like you, you’ll laugh and applaud half the crap she does.” 

Bender looked proud, not denying it. Claire shook her head and said, “I have no doubt.” 

The next gift came from Brian, a green and purple rattle formed to resemble a petri dish. The newborn tried to put it in her mouth. Lastly, Jackie presented Claire with a yellow baby blanket, the name 'Danielle' handstitched in a corner in pink, courtesy of Sylvia.

“Oh, this is adorable!” she cried, unfolding the swath of yarn. “I’m going to take her home in this.”

Allison took a big bite of the giant cinnamon roll she had bought at the hospital’s café earlier. Corn Pops were sprinkled on top of the white frosting. “When do you go home?” she asked with her mouth full. 

Claire was still inspecting the blanket. “In a day or so. Since I was early, they just want to make sure there are no lingering complications.”

Beside her, Andy gave a noticeable wince, the same one Bender was wearing on his own face. Allison reached up to rub his bicep. 

“They keep tryin’ to kick me out,” Bender explained, snickering. “’Fathers should not be here at all times!’ Yeah, screw you, Nurse Ratched.” 

To her left, Brian took a hit on his white inhaler. He had a bit of an asthma problem, though it wasn’t as strong as it'd been during high school; the nasty sterile smells of the hospital seemed to be exasperating it. “D—don’t you, um, h—have work?”

Jackie rubbed his back through his Neverending Story sweatshirt. 

“Eh, I’ve got vacation days,” Bender replied offhandedly, flashing the baby the “rock on” hand and grinning when she reached for his pinkie. “Gotta get back soon, though. Need to tell Big Bill he’s got another junior foreman.”

“You’re taking the job, then?” Andy asked through a bite of his own raspberry Danish. John had only confessed about his offered promotion after Claire’s reconnaissance. 

“With some caveats,” he reiterated. “Can’t officially start until Dani’s a few months old, for one. Also, if I have to finish up at Asshole O’Clock, I’m workin’ less hours for the week overall. Willing to take a pay-cut for it if it means I don’t end up a deadbeat.”

“Don’t worry,” Allison couldn’t avoid cracking. “You’ve always been our deadbeat.”

John flipped her off, and Danielle reached for that finger, too. 

Ultimately, she and Andy left within the hour. Being here on the maternity ward was starting to pull at Allison’s own biological clock. And that wasn’t ideal. Not yet, anyway. 

'Yeesh. Down, hormones! Let’s just get through the wedding first.'   
**  
A nurse came for Danielle a few hours after Brian and Jackie left Claire’s bedside. Thankfully, it wasn’t Nurse Ratched who’d wheeled the baby down the hall to the nursery, but a nice lady in blue named Carolyn. John, still distrusting, plucked one of Claire’s hair ribbons from where they rested on her bedside table and tied a yellow one around her left ankle. 

“I saw a documentary recently about these girls who were switched at birth,” he explained as the nurse wheeled her away. “The parents knew something was wrong right away, but no one would listen, so they convinced themselves they were being fucking stupid. Fast forward nine years later, their kid is confirmed not to be theirs. Hell no am I letting something like that happen to Dani.”

He had a point, Claire conceded. Any precautions were a-okay in her book. 

John arranged the gifts her friends had given her—the petri dish rattle, Fisher-Price xylophone, Ally’s jingly pink bear, the pillow shaped like a grinning camera, and the darling handstitched blanket—in the corner along with the balloon and Minnie Mouse baby towels Josh had dropped off last night. 

“I swear!” he had exclaimed upon entering her room, arms held akimbo. “I go away with Mikkel for one weekend, and my little sister has a baby.”

Behind him lingered her brother’s boyfriend himself—tall, blond, and athletic Mikkel Patz with his shy demeanor and heavily accented voice. He was the one who presented Claire with the Mylar balloon and the pile of terrycloth towels with a kiss to her cheek and a bashful “Glückwunsch!” 

“Anything from dear Mommy and Daddy?” he continued while he balanced Danielle in the crook of his elbow. 

John scoffed. “No, thank fuck. Your old man’s cool, but I’d like to avoid the Noracaine for as long as possible, thanks.” 

Claire was laid up in bed filing down her egg-shaped nails. Just because her everything ached and she was locked in this particular vacancy did not mean that she had to let go of self-care. “I called them again at the Waldorf. I was told Daddy and Mother were having dinner with the mayor of New York.” 

Josh shook his head. “I hope it’s a fantastic meal.”

That evening, Dr. Devers appeared to check on Claire. After taking her usual vitals, he insisted that she get up and walk around a bit. “You don’t want any risk of deep vein thrombosis, trust me.”

John, leafing through a car magazine in the window seat, glanced up. “What’s that?”

Dr. Devers winced. “Blood clot. Usually starting in the leg. It can be pushed into more dangerous areas of the body.” 

Claire’s eyes widened, and she threw the covers off herself. That was not a complication she was prepared to deal with. No, thank you. 

An hour later saw both Claire and John slowly ambling through the ward, Claire wincing with every step and cursing those damned mesh underpants she’d been given. They chafed her thighs. Moreso, the stupid cotton hospital gown’s back kept fluttering open, exposing her back and mesh-covered butt to the entire hall. 

Claire could not have been more frustrated. The apex of her thighs felt like a yawning cavern. She also had a headache that could kill an ox. Every few minutes, she’d attempt to walk by herself, alongside her cautious boyfriend, but invariably, a phantom pain here or there would shoot through her entire lower body, and she’d need to grab onto his arm.

It was as they were approaching the nursery to visit Danielle, Claire’s entire person cried “Nope!”, and she was forced to stop. “Ugh. Fuck me.”

John had his arm around her shoulders, head bent toward hers in worry. “You need to sit down, Sweets?” 

With every bob of the head, Claire hated herself just a little bit more.

Gently, he helped her to sit on a nearby backless bench. Cringing, she leaned her spine against the wall and gazed up at the ceiling. “I feel like an invalid.” 

John was crouching beside the bench. “It’s only temporary. Soon enough, you’ll be back to your royal self.”

Claire sniffed. “I feel about as royal as a toilet right now.”

John smirked. “Hey. We don’t call it ‘the throne’ for nothing. ‘Sides, even Princess Diana had to go through this shit.” 

That was accurate, at any rate. She did have two sons. Had the Princess worried about the state of her own lady parts after William and Harry were born? 

Claire groaned and bent forward to rest her head on her knees. 

John rubbed her very exposed back. “You all right, Cherry? Need me to, uh, get someone?”

Without glancing up, she shook her red head. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be okay.”

They waited. And waited a little bit more. Suffice to say, Claire was sitting on that bench for a wee longer than a minute. She needed time to reorient herself, clear her mind from constant thoughts of pain and cloudiness. 

When she was finally able to continue, they wandered through the rest of the maternity ward at a way too languid pace for Claire’s liking until they came upon the wide, rectangular bay window of the nursery. Inside, thirty-two mewling infants bundled in pink or blue blankets and matching hats squirmed in their individual crates. Claire automatically sought out the Bs.

“Where is she?” John’s inquisitive voice rumbled next to her. “They all look the same from here.”

She couldn’t really blame him. From this vantage, all the babies looked quite a bit alike. 

Claire passed over every crate until she found the one belonging to a Bender, Danielle Jane. A smile instantly forming on her lips in spite of her weariness, she stuck her finger on the glass and pointed. “Oh! There she is!”

John craned his neck, trying to follow her eye line. “Where?” 

“Second row, middle,” she explained, waving to the wriggling pink bundle in question. She knew she looked ridiculous, bouncing up and down on her tired legs and making goo-goo faces, but she didn’t care. “Between Aronson-comma-Marcus and Breeley-comma-Suzanne.” 

She knew the exact moment he spotted her. His entire face transformed, lighting up from the inside-out, a beam engulfing his features. It was beautiful and amazing to witness, this sort of instant contentment she’d rarely glimpsed within him, and never to this extent. Claire rubbed her hand up and down his bicep, through the material of his black thermal. 

“Ah,” he chuckled, arms folding over his chest. “*Now* she cries.”

He was right. Danielle’s mushy little face was screwed up and reddened, mouth open in a stretched grimace as she yowled. It was the first time Claire observed her in such a state since the moment she was born. Furrowing her forehead worriedly, she flattened a hand against the soundproof glass, as if hoping to reach through it. 

Claire could feel her own face wrinkling in a frown and silently wished she had her Oil of Olay skin cream with her. “What’s wrong with her? Is she hungry? Does she need a change? Does she not feel well? Is—“ 

John rested a calming hand on her shoulder. “Claire. Babies cry. Oftentimes for no reason.”

She chewed on her lip, not entirely satisfied. 'Oh, God, I hope I don’t turn into one of those helicopter parents.' 

A few minutes later, after tapping stupidly and ineffectually against the glass and making ludicrous faces at her child while John watched with obvious amusement, one of the maternity ward nurses approached her from somewhere inside the nursery. She was a kindly-looking woman, dressed in pink scrubs patterned with sheep and a matching stethoscope. “Hello! Are you Danielle’s mom?”

Claire blinked, then her lips broadened in a vast beam. “Yes! That’s me! I am Danielle’s mom.” 

'From this moment on, I am always going to be Danielle’s mom.'

It was a revelation that was only striking her now, standing before the nursery in a tacky backless gown barely able to support herself on two legs. 

The nurse smiled. “She’s hungry, and she keeps rejecting the formula we try to give her. She’s a bit of a stubborn one!”

'No surprise there.'

John snickered. “With us as parents? I’m shocked she didn’t throw the bottle against a wall.”

The nurse laughed and led Claire inside the nursery. Picking her red, fidgeting baby up out of her basket, she was referred to a set of white wicker armchairs placed aside for nursing mothers, gingerly lowered herself into the middle one, and positioned the baby to feed her. Danielle complied eagerly. 

Claire searched out John’s eyes staring at the both of them, and they shared a grin.

From now until the end of the road, they would be parents.   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I've been naming all the chapters after 80s pop culture. This was the best I could find. Sounds kinda "Chosen One"ish, which is a few years too early.
> 
> Note 2: My research tells me that there are actual Zeppelins/Zeppelyns in the world now (America and the UK, mostly). 
> 
> Note 3: Kay, I am a bit of a Name Nerd. I study the etymologies of names and stuff. Thus, I thought an obscene amount of time over this kid's moniker. It had to be something French but not too flowery, something he could conceivably shorten while she steadfastly refused to, and period-friendly. "Danielle" was number 17 on the top 1000 list of 1989. Graduated with a few of them. 
> 
> Note 4: Back in the 80s and 90s, *everything* was gendered. I remember going to Toys R Us and trying to decide if I should dart into the all pink aisle for a new Barbie or the blue and red aisle for some new Ninja Turtles merch. I usually chose the latter, but by lord, I still had quite a few Barbies. Most of them chewed on by my basset hound.
> 
> Note 5: Documentary referenced is called "Switched at Birth: Kimberly's Story". It's about a woman who freaked out after her child was diagnosed with a heart defect and her husband promptly paid off nurses to switch their kids with another mother, who'd recently lost her first child to a heart defect. The other child, Arlena Twigg, died at age 9. It's a horrid story and was recently featured on "20/20".
> 
> Note 6: Goes without saying, RIP Princess Di.


	25. Chapter 24: Family Ties

Chapter 24: Family Ties

Nora and Richard broke their heretofore absence on the very morning Claire was to leave. 

As John was shoving clothes inside his black nylon duffel bag and Danielle remained drifting in and out of Dreamland in her crate, Claire’s father pushed in through the door to her private room first, an annoyed appearance on his face. Claire glanced up from changing into a warm heather gray cashmere sweater, studying her father’s uncharacteristically reddened face, matching his hair almost exactly, and the obvious tension about his shoulders and mouth.

Before Claire could ask what was wrong, Richard offered both a congratulations and, curiously, an apology. 

“What are you sorry for?” she asked whilst she pulled the sweater down over her still extended stomach. She was going on a diet as soon as possible, yes she was. 

Before her, Richard sighed with his arms crossed over his chest. He was donning a navy blue Lacoste polo shirt and Dockers. “It’s a preemptive apology, and you’ll soon understand why it’s necessary.” He picked the baby up out of her crate, stroking her cheek, and murmured something that sounded to Claire like “I’m sorry about your grandmother.” 

Claire and John met each other’s eyes across the room. Her boyfriend looked as though he had just sucked on a lemon. Then squirted it into an open wound.

Her mother came sauntering in the room then, dressed to the nines as usual in a pink and black houndstooth blazer cinched at the waist with a huge leather belt and a matching black leather midi-skirt. Propped on her head was an oversize black Bretton hat, a great fake flower attached to its cummerbund. 

A few feet behind her trailed a literal nun—a young woman garbed in the traditional black and white habit and cowl. She looked unsure if she should be there or not. 

In tandem, Claire and John scowled. 'No, definitely not!'

When the woman in the nun’s habit paused beside her, Nora rested her palms against her arm, as if showing off a trophy. “Oh, hello, darling. I know you’ve had quite the harrowing ordeal, so I will keep this brief. I want to introduce you to Sister Mary Agatha from…where did you say again, dear?”

Sister Mary Agatha looked uncomfortable. “St. Paul’s Mission. Um, we operate out of California…” 

Nora brightened. “You hear that, Claire? California! Your…the child could end up a movie star.” 

Claire stood and placed her hands on her hips. 'That’ll only happen if I’m taking her to auditions myself.'

John was regarding her over the bed, shaking his head in incredulity. He truly believed there wasn’t a low Nora wouldn’t stoop to, and she was beginning to think him one-hundred percent right. 

At the head of the room, Richard winced and mouthed another apology.

“Mother—“ 

Nora wasn’t paying her any mind, not that Claire was surprised. Not much sidetracked the woman when she was on a mission of her own. “The Sisters of St. Paul’s will see that the child find a happy home and—oh.”

Gazing down at the infant in her father’s arms, the currently awake infant, her trainwreck of a mother paused in her ridiculous soliloquy. Manicured hands, tipped with Wolverine-like silver nails, gradually lowered themselves to her sides. Claire gawked whilst an expression she was decidedly not used to glimpsing on her mother washed over Nora’s face—an expression Claire hadn’t thought her mother even had the ability to make with all that Botox pumped in her flesh. Beneath her stupid hat, light, mascara-coated eyes rounded, and her red-lacquered mouth formed a perfect O. 

“Oh, my,” Nora continued, heels click-clacking against the linoleum as she walked closer to her husband and grandchild. “Th—this is her, then?”

A smirk came over John’s lips. Claire’s were still pursed. “Yes, Mother.” 

Then, the woman smiled. Smiled! She hadn’t witnessed her mother’s mouth so much as flicker—genuinely, anyway—in many years. Inching forward, Nora took the fidgeting infant from Richard’s arms, a move that had both John and Claire darting forward in case she simply passed her off to the Sister or something.

But there was no need. For Nora was gazing down at the cooing baby in her embrace with a light in her eyes Claire had never seen before. “Well! You are just…adorable.” When she briefly lifted her head, the glowing façade momentarily vanished. “Despite half your DNA.”

John stared at the boot in his hand, looking as if he wasn’t sure whether to put it on or smash in her mother’s face with it. 

Again, Claire couldn’t blame him.

Her dad banged his head back against the wall. 

The baby still in her arms, Nora began to push the perplexed nun out the door. “My apologies, we won’t be needing your services after all. Please enjoy the rest of your stay in Chicago and please let the Mission know that we’ve changed our minds. Bye! Goodbye!”

The door closed behind the Sister. Claire stood beside the bed, incredulous. 

'There was no “we” about it. Good God!' 

“Now,” Nora continued, stretching her lips down at the baby. Predictably, she started crying. “What is this little one’s name?”

Claire marched right up to her mom and all but grabbed the newborn out of her embrace. “It’s Danielle.” 

Nora wrinkled the nose that was younger than Claire herself was. “Danielle? Well. That’s…” She cleared her throat and rearranged her enormous hat. “I thought you would’ve christened her after me.” 

John nearly choked on the Bubblicious he’d been chewing. Her mother glared fiercely at him as he started to laugh. 

Claire paused in strapping Danielle into the combination car seat/baby carrier she’d purchased at Neiman Marcus a few months ago; Josh had brought it with him when he visited. On the other side of the room, John was still bent over laughing. “Mother. Why would you possibly think we’d name her after you?” 

Nora folded her arms over her chest. “I called you after *my* mother.” 

Claire cringed. Both she and Josh—Clarence—had been baptized in the Standishes’ preferred church, Queen of All Saints Basilica in the city, in the name of Nora’s mother, Clarisse. A native Frenchwoman from Caen, she’d been brought over on one of those “Bride Boats” at the end of the war following her and Claire’s grandfather’s quickie marriage. Grandfather Langdon had jumped behind enemy lines on D-Day with the rest of the 101st and quite literally crash landed through Grandmère Clarisse’s barn in Caen. After Paris was liberated, he returned to the Norman village and promised to marry her once the war was won. 

The fact that he’d had a girlfriend back home in Illinois waiting for him didn’t seem to matter after he met Clarisse. 

Claire and Josh had grown up hearing the stories. How Langdon made good on his promise once Nazi Germany was defeated. How Clarisse sailed to her new home, leaving her sister and only remaining relative behind, months before Langdon himself was discharged. How Shermer had been even smaller back then, and the gossip spread like wildfire. 

How Clarisse arrived pregnant with Nora. And how Langdon’s ex spread the nastiest rumors about her in revenge—that she was a French slut, that she’d slept with the Nazis, that the baby in her womb didn’t even belong to Langdon. 

Spending decades living amongst these outlandish falsities, not to mention six years before that having to endure the occupation of her country, had turned Clarisse de Villiers-Thompson from a pleasant, hopeful young woman to a cynical, bitter, often twisted old lady. She departed upon her two daughters, Nora and Theresa, an unhealthy obsession with physical appearance—getting it and keeping it no matter what it took. Her philosophy was the same with men. The richer and more powerful, the better. “I married for love,” Clarisse was fond of saying with a dismissive scoff. “And I ended up ‘orridly working class. You, my girls, will do better.” 

And they did. Theresa ended up becoming the mistress, and later the second wife, of a hotel magnate out on the Vegas Strip. And Nora hooked her claws into Richard Standish, self-made Fortune 500 industrialist and undisputed King of Chicago, before she was twenty-one. 

On one hand, Claire was proud to bear Clarisse’s namesake. Her grandmère had survived Nazi Occupation and had fought with the French Resistance—blowing up bridges, assassinating high-ranking Gestapo, building bombs. She’d lost quite a bit, including her parents and brother. But, on the other hand, she’d molded Nora into the harridan she was today. Clarisse had never been the knitting, humming, baking grandmother. Cold and aloof, oftentimes cruel and callous, she had no qualms about putting her hands on her offspring—or the offspring of her offspring. Claire recollected many a moment in her childhood where she’d been slapped or spanked with a spatula for perceived misbehavior. It took intervention on her father’s part to end it completely. 

Nora had seen no issue with any of it. 

Grandfather Langdon was dead these past ten years, and Grandmère Clarisse was in her late seventies, living in a home and approaching senility. She had survived much, and Claire willingly bore her name. However, when people asked, she usually just muttered that it was a “family name” because the saga of Clarisse had been and remained a complicated one.

Nora, on the other hand, had done absolutely nothing to warrant a grandchild named after her. Unless one counted winning Miss Illinois ’65—which Claire did not and Nora very much did. 

Claire went back to strapping in Danielle. “I was named after Grandmère Clarisse, Mother. She was in the French Resistance.” 

Nora Standish waved away the statement as if swatting a fly. She, too, had grown up hearing of her mother’s exploits and was outwardly annoyed with anyone who mentioned them. “Pish-posh. Did your grandmother win Miss Illinois before she was twenty? I think not.”

From the narrow closet near the bay window, John continued laughing. As usual, her father tried to inject some reason. “Nora, leave them be. The child is theirs; they can call her what they want.” 

In turn, John mumbled something like “Shoulda named her Zeppelin Spike”. 

Claire blinked her eyes to the ceiling. 

Nora glared at her husband. “You never back me up on anything, Richard.” 

“That’s because most of your opinions are ridiculous,” Claire’s father mumbled beneath his breath, but she managed to catch the words anyway. 

Judging by the grin on John’s face, so had he. 

Nora’s expression soured ever further. “What was that?”

“Nothing, sweetheart.”

“Well,” Nora continued as they made their way down the hallway and out of the hospital, Claire in a wheelchair holding Danielle’s carrier while her father pushed her—hospital policy. John walked ahead hefting the bags over his shoulders. “I suppose you can always change the name. You have up to a year before you have to deal with all that red tape nonsense.” 

Claire sighed and nearly jumped out of the wheelchair when they reached the parking lot. 

Once she buckled the baby in and strapped her to the backseat, Claire climbed in beside her cooing, squirming daughter, gazing at her new surroundings curiously. Grabbing the petri dish rattle she’d stuffed in her coat pocket, she beamed and shook it a few inches above the infant’s head. Predictably, small, chubby hands reached for it.

John settled into the driver’s seat of the Audi—the Trans Am was only a two-seater; she knew he was wrestling with his conscience over whether to trade it in—winced when Cyndi Lauper came over the radio warbling about girls wanting to have fun, and switched the station to 95.1, Chicago’s premier rock station. 

“John!” Claire cried, instantly clapping her hands over the baby’s ears. On the radio, Mötley Crüe were growling about “more sex, more blood, and more pain”.

“What?” he snarked, piloting the car out of the lot and onto Hospital Road. 'Thank God my parents have their own car.' She could not handle driving all the way back into the city with Nora squawking at her side. “She won’t understand; she’s a baby. ‘Sides, kid’ll very likely hear much worse growing up. From the both of us. Don’t deny it, Cherry.” 

She pouted. He had a point.

“By the way,” he added as he turned onto the main highway. “We’re *not* changing her name, right?”

“Oh, no. Hell no.”

“Thank fuck.”  
**  
Rich and Nora followed them back to Housely but only lingered in the lobby, despite Succubus Standish’s protests. Claire’s ma kept trying to barrel her way toward the elevators, past Olivier and the gnarly-looking “doormen” (read: bouncers), insisting that Claire required her help. What *help* the woman could offer John had no idea considering that, according to Claire, she and Josh had largely been raised by an army of nannies and au pairs; if Nora’d even changed a diaper in her life, he’d be shocked. 

Fortunately, the doormen/bouncers and Olivier quite understood their jobs; Nora was not on his and Claire’s approved list of visitors, so she was absolutely not getting any closer to the bank of elevators. Rich, too, squirreled his wayward wife away after kissing his daughter—and granddaughter—goodbye and shaking John’s hand. 

Bender could hear the Succubus bitching about her “rights” and shrieking “Don’t they know who I am?!” well after the glass doors to the lobby swung shut. 

He rolled his eyes and hefted the bags higher on his shoulders. They almost missed the elevator because Olivier and the big, beefy Sasquatches of doormen were fussing like grandmas over Dani in her carrier. 

Up on the nineteenth floor, he and Claire were immediately accosted by Ol’ Low-and-Grout. He had no idea how the old bat had known that they were coming home today, and yet, there she was in her usual long red robe, beige nightgown, and boobs down to her corny feet. 

“Oh! Let me see,” she croaked in her old lady voice, peering over the carrier. The confused visage Dani had worn when faced with Olivier and the two oversized Bruce Willises deepened, and John didn’t bother trying to smother his snicker. “Oh, a beautiful baby. And…quite large.” The battle axe in pink hair curlers lifted her head to stare directly at him. “Your doing, I presume?” 

Bender’s grin broadened. 'You bet your ancient, wrinkled ass.' 

Great. Now he had nasty mental images. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Lowing,” Claire said, smiling phonily; he could see right through it. “But I’m a bit tired so—“

“Oh, of course, dear.” Sweet N’ Low glared at him again, as though that, too, were his fault. 

He supposed it sort of was but…whatever. 

Being back home after a few days away was always a little strange. And in this case, it wasn’t like he and Claire had taken a trip to Lake Michigan or stayed a few nights over in Shermer. When they’d left here, they’d been John&Claire, as always. Now, upon their return, they were John&Claire&Danielle, as they would forever be. 

Until when and if another ampersand came along, anyway. The notion, so soon after Dani’s birth, had Bender reeling. 

Claire traversed the living room, placed the carrier on not-the-weird-settee, and undid the thick black straps effectively holding Dani nestled inside, clucking nonsense all the while. He wondered if this was a thing, if babies weren’t the only ones who learned to speak gibberish once they entered the world. Mentally, he promised that he’d always talk to his kid like a normal person whose tongue wasn’t too big for his mouth. 

Dani waved her arms around as Claire carefully swathed her in that yellow blanket Lady Dork had given them. “I should feed her.”

Which reminded him. 'Dude. You’ve been in La La Land for a few days now. Time to get back to reality. Dumbass.' 

Telling her he had something to show her, he led her down the small corridor that housed the bathroom and bedrooms—two bedrooms, one of which he and Ty had converted into a nursery. John and his buddy had been working steadily on it for the past few months; it was almost finished when Claire suddenly went into labor. So John clandestinely called Ty and asked him to add the finishing touches—sand down and paint the wainscoting, add another layer of wallpaper, set up that mobile Basketcase had bought the kid. Over the hospital’s phone, Ty had assured him that everything was taken care of; John just hoped he was right. 

Clearing his throat, feeling weirdly nervous, Bender rested his hand on the brass doorknob of the closed white oak door that led to the nursery. Claire shuffled before him, still a tad weak from delivery, Danielle firmly clutched in her arms and wrapped snugly in that same yellow blanket. 

“All right,” he began, clearing his throat and staring down at the toes of his boots. They were scuffed. He needed new ones. “I think it’s done. But, uh, if it’s not…blame Ty, not me.”

Claire half-smirked and hefted the baby higher over her shoulder. “I’ll remember that.” 

John took a deep breath and opened the door. 

Instantly, with two claps of his hands—Ty’s idea; he got a kick out of those clapper lights—the nursery became flooded in a soft, yellow glow. He stepped back whilst Claire walked slowly over the threshold, gaze bouncing to and fro, taking everything in. A broad beam engulfed her amazing lips, a light appearing in her eyes, and John breathed a sigh of relief, though tried not to show it. He crossed his arms over the marbled gray t-shirt he wore, leaning against one wall, going for “I’m cool, I’m calm”. 

John observed while Claire inspected the room, her smile growing. He and Ty had worked pretty damn hard on it, he had to say. Finding “gender neutral” wallpaper had been a bit of a hassle; everything on the market was geared to either boys or girls, and, at the time, they hadn’t known Danielle to be a Danielle, despite Claire’s claims. Eventually, he found this wallpaper of frogs croaking yellow music notes, which he thought pertinent, at a paint store in Logan Square. The oak wainscoting was painted white to match the background. Thick light green carpeting covered the bare floors corner-to-corner. Against the east wall stood that stupid ostentatious Cinderella’s Castle crib, properly dressed in clean baby sheets and one flat pillow; he’d read that too many were bad for the baby. 

Across the nursery, to the north, rested a set of blond wood drawers he’d bought at IKEA and, against the southern wall, a matching changing table padded with a mattress of singing frogs. Bender had spent an inordinate amount of time putting both pieces together; he fucking hated IKEA and their crazy Swedish names for stuff. 

Suspended from the crib tittered Allison’s mobile, and, a little to the right, her sketch of a jamming baby lay framed against the wall. Atop the dresser stood a ceramic lamp, a ceramic elephant to be exact. Bender had been compelled to buy it as soon as he glimpsed it in a kids’ store on Michigan. To the left, a blond oak accordion door concealed the closet; he and Ty had gotten rid of the sliding doors, afraid they’d fall off the track and hurt the kid. Inside hung that duck robe Claire loved so much and a few other things, such as the miniature leather jacket he’d secretly purchased. The rest of the clothes—and there were many—lined the dresser drawers. A little ovular toy chest Ty had made—his own baby gift—perched in a corner. 

“John!” Claire gasped, taking it all in. Her head kept craning from one side to the other. “You did all this?!”

“Well,” he replied, a tad bashful. Always his reaction when he pleased her. Outside of the bedroom, anyway. He was never bashful in there. “Ty helped. He made that toy chest over there. But, uh, we’ve been workin’ on it for a while.” 

Claire was all bright smiles. “This is amazing! It looks wonderful.” She gently placed the kid in her ridiculous crib, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. Her lips, as always, tasted of cherries. “Thank you.”

One side of his mouth quirked. “I’m not done yet.”

He felt her watching him, her confusion evident, as he crossed the room toward the closet. Pulling open the accordion door, he carefully dragged out the very thing he’d spent such a long ass time working on—the rocking chair. Right now, it was covered in that same white drop cloth. Grimacing, he managed to pick the thing up—it weighed a *ton*—and deposited the chair in the corner nearest the dresser. 

Claire’s brow was furrowed. “What’s that?”

With a snap, the cloth was removed, and, again, Claire gasped. For there was the finished product—fucking finally, the finished product—in all its glory. Varnished rosewood with a red chestnut finish, in the traditional arrowback style, with gliding legs on the bottom and curled-under armrests. On the rectangular headrest was carved what John decided was going to be his signature—two ripe cherries and a cursive JB underneath. 

Every craftsman had to have a signature, right? 

The richie whose house he was working on in Lake Forest had stopped by the office just when he was putting the finishing touches on the thing and demanded it for himself. He had no real idea why; the dude was a perpetual bachelor with no kids. Maybe he just had a rocking chair fetish or something. Either way, he’d offered to commission it personally. A lot of fucking money was uncaringly plunked down before him. But he’d created it specifically for Claire. So, he grabbed the chair back as Mr. Richie Pants was shepherding it off and told him unequivocally that it was not for sale. Dude was not happy, and some of his workmates called him insane. 

A few years ago, John would’ve shoved that chair at the guy while salivating over the cashola, already envisioning the new guitar and sativa he’d splurge on.

“Oh, my God!” his princess cried, sounding remarkably like Allison’s sister. She stepped toward the chair as if in a daze. Looking askance at him over her shoulder, she added, “You made this?!”

John smirked. “Don’t sound so surprised, Cherry. I can do anything I can put my widdle mind to.” 

Running the pads of her fingers along the purposely distressed wood, John was glad he had added a few coats of the red chestnut finish at the last second. Aged wood was just asking to give people splinters. He watched while she traced the carved cherries—and his initials beneath—then the cushioned arrowback and seat. 

Her gentle touch against the rosewood of the rocking chair was kind of turning him on, and he had to remind himself that there was to be no hanky-panky for at least six weeks. 

Bender groaned beneath his breath. 'My hand is going to get a lot of use over the next six weeks.' 

“This is beautiful,” she breathed, lowering herself to sit down. Ah, there it was. The “Oh, Gorsh!” soppiness was back. He could feel his lips stretching into a pleased smile. 

Bending over the ludicrous crib, he very carefully picked a fussing Dani up out of her prison, little arms flapping and plump fingers pinching the air. Once he handed her off to Claire, she immediately latched on to her breast through the material of her sweater. 

Claire giggled. “I guess I better feed her, then.” 

Watching her feed *their* kid from the rocking chair *he’d* made was almost enough to undo him. He couldn’t recall a time when he was this level of stupid-happy. 

Afterward, she kissed his cheek, told him she loved the rocking chair, and him, and they put Dani to bed. At home. For the first time. 

Then, they, too, collapsed in their bedroom across the hall, Claire still tired from bringing Dani into the world and John exhausted from worrying about them both. 

It was the last time they’d sleep well for a while.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I got that outfit of Nora's directly from "Why Women Kill" on CBS All Access, part of which takes place in the 80s. If y'all haven't seen it, I highly recommend it. It's delicious. 
> 
> Note 2: As I've said once, as a history nerd, I tend to drop in random anecdotes that do not move the plot forward whatsoever xD I figure Claire's name is a "family name". Might as well have an interesting story behind it.
> 
> Note 3: Queen of All Saints Basilica is a real Catholic cathedral in Chicago. Quite beautiful and quite old.
> 
> Note 4: In most states, you *do* have up to a year to change your baby's name if you so wish without having to spend 400-500 dollars. After that, you gotta pay up.
> 
> Note 5: I love Mötley Crüe's random umlauts. Their name should be pronounced Mirtley Cryu. Guess it doesn't sound as good.


	26. Chapter 25: She Drives Me Crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> myCourses is down, so I have an excuse to procrastinate.

Chapter 25: She Drives Me Crazy

The first ten days had been easy.

Well, comparably, anyway, from all he’d read and observed. Dani slept almost entirely through the night, only waking them up once or twice to be fed or changed; the rest of the time, Claire woke her herself for feedings. John couldn’t believe their luck; they’d managed to bring the one baby into the world who didn’t keep its parents awake at all hours. She was like a fucking angel. It was a miracle!

Then, post ten days, the sound of the sad trombone began following him and Claire around. Bender could hear it echo in his head whenever Dani yowled through the baby monitor at two AM. 

Nope. They decidedly were not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Everything was in technicolor now. If they hadn’t quite felt like new parents before, they certainly did once those ten days were up.

He didn’t know what had happened. It was like…one night, everything was cool, Dani simply woke them up twice for feedings, and then the next…

The next…holy shit. 

It was as if a switch had been flipped. At one point, John even checked Dani over for errant nodules or something. They went to bed at 11:30, and the kid was screaming at twelve. She needed her diaper changed. Fast forward to 1:15, and she required a feeding. 2:02, she was uncomfortable for whatever reason, and Claire sat with her in the rocking chair swaying back and forth while soothingly crooning “Hopelessly Devoted to You” in the baby’s ear. That seemed to work; Claire had always had a nice voice, so he wasn’t surprised, just thankful. 

Alas, she was screaming again by 4:30. And on and on and fucking on it went for the next three weeks. 

John was so goddamned tired, it got to the point where he almost plum forgot Claire’s birthday right around the corner. After work one day—the same day Big Bri had visited early that morning and insisted on driving Bender to the office, afraid that he’d fall asleep at the wheel, which was probable—he caught a Greyhound to Michigan Avenue, popped into Zales, and bought her a blue heart pendant he’d seen in the window. Claire loved sapphires. 

As he stumbled out of the jewelry store, necklace boxed and giftwrapped, he gave a silent prayer of thanks that his new baby-addled brain hadn’t completely left him. 

Now, Dani was approaching a month old, and he and Claire had fallen into a bit of a routine. At night, they performed their parental duties one at a time so that the other had a slight chance of getting back to sleep. The kid usually woke up by 6:45 on the dot—like fucking clockwork—so one of them had to shuffle to the kitchen before then to prepare a bottle for her morning feeding. Claire tried to keep the kid on a breast/bottle feeding schedule—the boob at night and formula during the day. But sometimes Cherry had to give in to Dani’s fussing and/or her body’s demands. 

Claire’s transformation was kind of incredible to see. For the first week or so following their bringing Dani home, she meticulously and stubbornly clung to her usual rhythm of self-maintenance. Right after Dani’s morning feeding, she would return her to the stupid crib, slug across the hall to their bedroom, dress herself in her Pretty-Pretty-Princess attire, style her hair, and do her makeup. 

This did not last long.

It was a gradual—and entertaining—transformation. Cherry went from her usual Cherry self to…well, a new mom. First, most of the makeup went, sans a slick of lip gloss. That, too, was gone soon enough. Then, instead of styling her hair, she began to either let it curl about her face or uncaringly threw it up in a ponytail. Then went her expensive, high-hat wardrobe. The Calvins. The Ralph Lauren. The Guess jeans and prim Lacoste tennis dresses. By the end of the week, she was clothing herself in pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. 

The bags beneath her eyes were the only ones she carried.

By that following Monday, Claire was drinking an espresso a day. She still couldn’t drink too much coffee—it was bad for the baby and the breastmilk—but she still got her fix. His princess had never taken to espresso before, but now she demanded an extra shot to stay awake. 

He himself had nearly gargled breastmilk when he lightened his coffee with it, not realizing that the white stuff in Dani’s bottle was not formula. Claire was gleeful when she informed him that he was about to drink boob juice. 

While John loved Claire’s boobs, that was a fetish he wasn’t prepared to tackle.

When Dani was about two weeks old, Chicago was enduring a huge thunderstorm—that had been fun. He remembered being jolted awake by the shrieking echoing through the baby monitor, which they’d placed atop the Bart Simpson headboard. Claire went in and tried to calm her down with a feeding, and it’d seemed to work—for about an hour and a half. At 2:30, four hours before he had to get up permanently, Dani started crying again, and he shot up in bed like a fucking jack-in-the-box. 

Beside him, the Princess was, somehow, still prostrate. “Your turn,” she mumbled into the pillow, then grabbed his Bart doll and held it over her exposed ear. 

John grumbled and threw the blankets off his lap. He rose, crossed the room, and smacked right into the wall beside the dresser and Pete’s habitat in his exhaustion, mumbling “Ow! Fuck!” as Claire cackled into her pillow. He threw her a scowl over his shoulder, then padded across the hall into the nursery. In the absurd Cinderella’s Castle crib, Dani was crying and squirming, little face wet and red and wrinkled, looking like a miniature Winston Churchill. 

John bent over and picked her up out of the contraption, stroking the back of her red head and murmuring bullshit. He was way too tired to recall what he was saying. He just kept swaying from side to side with the kid, bouncing her up and down, rubbing her back. Babies liked movement. 

When she eventually calmed down, Bender tried lowering her back into the crib. She immediately started to cry again. 

So, he repeated his actions, head pounding from the combination of Dani’s yowling and overtiredness. Once she went silent in his arms, he tried again. 

Naturally, the waterworks reignited. 

John sighed, glancing at the electric green numbers on the nearby alarm clock. 2:45, he really needed to sleep. 

Dani’s tiny hands tightened near his collarbone, and she rested her head on his shoulder. 

John melted like a frigging ice cream cone in the middle of Miami. “Damnit, kid. You’re going to be the death of me. Come on, let’s go.” 

Hefting her higher over his shoulder, he crossed back into the master bedroom. “I think I’ve got a growth,” Bender announced while standing over the bed. 

Claire rolled over, her brief befuddlement quickly morphing into a smile. “Oh! Hi, sweetie! What’s wrong? Are you afraid?” 

In response, Dani just whined. 

Pouting, Claire reached out to rub the kid’s back. “Oh, she’s scared of the thunder. Don’t worry, Danielle. It’s just the clouds talking to the lightning.”

'What the fuck?' John stared at her for a beat, then burst out laughing. “’It’s just the clouds talking to the lightning’?!” 

Cherry shrugged, though a splotch of crimson suffused her otherwise colorless cheeks. He knew they both must’ve made a real pretty picture these days. Like something out of a George Romero movie. “It’s what my nanny used to tell me as a kid. When I was afraid of the boom-boom. I mean, thunder.”

Bender laughed harder. “Boom-boom!” 

Claire glowered up at him. “I was six, okay? Leave me alone.”

“What should we do with this one?” he asked, balancing close to twelve pounds of infant in his embrace. 

“We’ll put her in the bassinet. Drag it over here.”

Ah, Jockstrap’s present, the bassinet. And, to match the décor, this was also Bart Simpson themed. The hood was a yellow replica of the toon’s head, his wide open mouth functioning as the bonnet. The actual basket portion was orange, like Bart’s shirt, and the skirt was blue, like his shorts. The thing was held up with poles that ended in sneakers. 

John loved it. Claire suggested they set it up in their bedroom in case the baby wouldn’t sleep. This meant that John had had to get rid of a few things, such as the R2D2 vacuum and the beanbag chair that looked like Dee Snyder’s head. 

The vacuum he moved into the hall closet. The beanbag chair he’d chucked, though. It was starting to leak plastic beans. 

Once he dragged the Bart Bassinet over to their bed, he tenderly lay Dani down into it, then retreated back to the nursery to fetch her baby blanket, the same yellow one she’d been brought home in. Draping it over her, he tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and gratefully climbed back under the sheets. 

Claire was resting on his arm, a grin about her lips. “She’s turning you into a softie.”

With his eyes closed, John scoffed. “She is *not*. Go to sleep.”

John Bender would never be a softie, no-no. He was not frozen yogurt. He was that carton of ice cream that had been kept in the freezer for too long and now was impossible to scoop out.

Yep. 

'If I were an ice cream flavor, I’d be Rocky Road—dark, a little nutty, and marshmallow-y, just because they’re delicious.'

Christ, He really needed to get some sleep. 

That all had been a week ago. In the intervening seven days, there were no thunderstorms or other *boom-boom* noises, so Dani willingly slept in her own room. Still, she kept them on their toes, requiring a feeding here or a diaper change there or some new clothes after she spit up all over the “Don’t hate me ‘cus I’m adorable!” onesie. 

She actually spat up quite a lot—which, after a frantic call, Doc assured them both was normal for infants—wrecking at least five of her new onesies, two baby sheets, and Claire’s favorite 'Flashdance'-esque off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. She’d sobbed as she threw it in the incinerator. John would get her another one for her big 2-2. 

Then, the following Monday night, John hit another New Dad milestone. 

Dani had been blessedly quiet for most of the evening, only waking them up once needing to be held. Claire studiously rose every two hours to feed her, as Doc advised. John was actually getting a decent amount of sleep that night. 

Until, about an hour following her last feeding, Dani’s wails bounced through the baby monitor positioned right above his head, and he very nearly had a heart attack upon waking. 

To his left, Claire again mumbled “Your turn” into her pillow and threw the flannel bedspread over her head. 

Bender groaned, lingered on the edge of the mattress for a minute to get his bearings, then slowly rose, feet flat against the cold floor, clad only in a white t-shirt and blue boxers. Generally, he slept wearing as little clothing as possible no matter the weather—if it was summer, he was liable to sleep stark ass naked whether Claire was *in the mood* or not—but Chicago was fucking freezing right now, and he lamented that he wasn’t even wearing socks. 

John threw his ratty gray robe over his shoulders, almost grabbing Claire’s lacy pink one off the hook instead; he would never have lived that down. Across the hall, Dani’s yowls increased in octave, and he winced.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’,” he muttered as he shuffled out of the room. 

Dani’s caterwauling intensified. 

“Jesus,” he mumbled, stepping into the nursery. Ambling over to the crib, the hem of his robe dragging behind him, he picked his screaming daughter up out of her makeshift jail. 

“God. Dani! Shh!” he hissed when she was clear of the crib. “Shush. You’re *loud*.” Bender paused a beat, then added, “You get that from your mom.” 

“I heard that!” Claire’s disembodied voice burbled through the monitor in the nursery, perched on top of the dresser. John chuckled. 

“Pig,” she finished, and he laughed harder. 

John brought Dani closer to himself. “All right, what’s wrong, huh? You hungry or…” Automatically, his palm came up to cup her backside, and he felt it. His worst nightmare. “Oh God. Ughhhhhh...” 

Again, Cherry’s disembodied voice crackled through the speaker. “You can’t avoid it forever, John!”

Bender scowled. “Go to sleep, Claire!” 

Looking back at Dani, who was staring at him curiously, the stench began to tickle his nose. “Ugh. All right, come on.”

Although the kid had been home for almost a month now, John had, thus far, been able to avoid the Changing the First Diaper milepost. Logically, he knew, at some point, that it’d need to get done; he couldn’t keep juggling the same old excuses. 'I’m exhausted from work.' 'My hands are covered in grease and stuff.' 'Upp, sorry, Sweets! Gotta take a leak.' Thus far, Claire had indulged him, though not without many accompanying eye rolls, scoffs, and mumbled “chickenshits”. 

John would never admit this out loud—and he’d go to the death protecting his secret—but he was kind of…squeamish. Around *fluids*. It was why he’d been so beyond thankful that Big Bill hired outside help to get rid of that errant septic tank some months back. Grease, alcohol, motor oil—*those* fluids he could handle. Stuff that secreted from someone’s body, on the other hand…

As Claire would say, totally gross. 

He knew he had to get used to it. Already, he’d grown…well, not *cool* but *could deal with* the kid’s drool and runny nose and even those quarts of spit-up. 

Her diaper, however, was a whole different ballgame. A nasty, nasty ballgame. 

The fact that he’d managed to successfully dodge this…errand until this moment was a miracle in and of itself. 

Dani had recently started lifting her head without help, but John was still extra cautious just in case. After he spread a disposable liner across the mattress, he lowered the squirming baby to the changing table. There, she kicked her chubby legs around and pinched the air with her fingers, her cries halted. She was familiar with this process; she knew that she was about to get a fresh new diaper.

That John would put on her. Yuck. 

Cringing, he undid the fasteners at each side of the diaper and quickly pulled the mess down. The stink immediately intensified, and the balled-up trash was gone in the wastebasket before he could blink. 

That done, he grasped the kid’s ankles with one hand while fumbling open the box of wet-naps with the other. Scrunching his nose, John slowly went in, wiping up the horrifying mess on the backs of her thighs and butt. 

“Ugh,” he muttered again as he tossed the first wet-nap, then went to grab a second. 

On the table before him, the disgusting/adorable pile of tiny human’s Claire-like lips stretched into a gummy smile. 

Bender shook his head, amused in spite of himself. And what he was doing. “Oh, you think this is funny, do you?”

On her back, Dani merely giggled. 

“Yeah,” he continued, throwing out the second wet-nap. “Me cleaning out your butthole, that’s hilarious.” 

Dani popped a thumb in her mouth. John shook his head again and, still balancing the kid’s ankles in his right hand, began searching the shelves beneath the table for the talcum powder. “Powder. Powder. Where the hell did she…? Oh, here it is.”

Palming the bottle, and very narrowly missing banging his skull on the tabletop, he dumped probably way too much on Dani’s nether regions, causing the kid to sneeze.

“Gesundheit,” John said, and the baby grinned again. 

'Ah, being a baby. When not having any teeth is precious'. 

At his age, people would call him Cletus the Slack-jawed Yokel.

Her smile never failed to have that “Oh, Gorsh!” effect on him, though. Turned him into a big, ol’ dope. 

Bender reached for the diaper topping the nearest column of them. The nursery contained *a lot* of diapers; it was like a fucking Tetris game of diapers. Only these were all white and—John looked a bit closer—patterned with the Seven Dwarves from 'Snow White.' 

This gave him pause. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his daughter proudly displaying Dopey on her ass, but whatever. 

Sliding the Dopey Diaper beneath the kid, he folded it around her, fumbling a bit as he tried different, like, angles and stuff. Only when he was satisfied did his suddenly buttery fingers slip and slide all over the enclosures at the hips. 

That done, he wiped the kid’s hands and began to pick her up from the changing table. “Ah. See, that wasn’t so—oh, shit.” The diaper promptly slid off Dani’s hips and splat to the floor with a soft squish. 

Through the baby monitor, Claire’s tinny laughter flooded the nursery. 

Bender glowered at the small, rectangular device. “Go to SLEEP, Claire!”

The snorting laughter continued. Rolling his eyes, he lay down another liner, then Dani atop it, and reached down to throw out the wayward diaper. 

“That woman drives me insane,” he muttered as the giggles continued, wiping down Dani’s inner thighs. He snorted in reluctant amusement anyway and dumped more talcum powder on Dani’s own lady parts. 

Plucking another Dopey Diaper from the nearest column, he folded the thing around her legs, this time more determined, then very carefully and flinchingly brought together the enclosures. 

Still wincing, he lifted Dani off the changing table. When the diaper failed to slip off this time, he exhaled in relief. “Success!” 

In his arms, Dani gurgled, as if celebrating his victory. Did First Successful Diaper Change warrant a fist pump? 

John looked at the baby in his arms. “Well, you’re up. May as well feed you.”

He considered waking Claire, who was finally silent over the baby monitor, but ultimately nixed that idea. The two of them required as much sleep as possible to properly take care of this kid, and Dani woke her up enough on her own. Padding down the hall, gray robe trailing after him, John traversed through the living space, narrowly missing hitting his toe on that stupid settee, and shuffled into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he squinted whilst his eyes adjusted to the sudden onslaught of light, grabbed the nearest bottle, and slammed the door shut. Over his shoulder, Dani was playing with the ends of his hair. 

Under the stove, he pulled a soup pot from the din, filled it with water, dropped it on top of one of the burners, and switched on the gas. The bottle was placed inside the pot. All this was performed robotically, unthinkingly, barely awake-ingly. He’d done this shit before. 

Kinda amazing how quickly one got the hang of this stuff. 

Out of nowhere, Claire’s voice called out from the master bedroom. “John! Don’t use the microwave!” 

He scoffed, mildly insulted that she assumed he would forget. “I know that, Cherry! Sleep! Now!” 

One of those parenting books Claire was reading advised against microwaving formula or breastmilk, which needed to be lukewarm. Something about “hot spots” and uneven heating. John could understand that. His Hot Pockets were always scorching on the ends but ice cold in the middle.

After a few minutes, he plucked the bottle out with tongs and tested the milk on his hand. Satisfied, he lowered the plastic nipple to Dani’s mouth. She was being fussy tonight, so she refused it until he lined her lips with the stuff. Only then did she start to suck greedily, emitting little glugging noises. 

When the bottle was empty, John washed it out and stuck it on the dish dryer. Then, he ambled back through the living room and down the hall to the nursery. 

Delicately, he lay a squirming Dani in her crib, draped the yellow blanket over her body, and grabbed that jingle ball bear—Claire had dubbed it Pinky Bear—off the dresser. Shaking it once, making the kid smile toothlessly, he smirked crookedly and rested it in the far corner of the crib, nearest her right foot. As far away from her face as possible. 

Leaning over, he kissed her forehead. “Night, kid. Dream about baby stuff. Rattles and crap. Your ma’s boobs. I’ll be dreamin’ about those, too.” 

On cue, a splutter blared through the speaker. John snickered. 

Back in the bedroom (after a stopover in the bathroom to wash his hands—thoroughly wash his hands), Bender exhaustedly lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, shrugging off the robe and uncaringly dropping it to the floor. Beside him, Claire stirred, glanced at him askance, then rolled over. 

“Is she okay?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep. 

“She’s fine,” he replied, head smacking against the pillow. 

“I mean,” Claire continued, and he reluctantly opened his eyes. “When you changed her diaper, did everything look okay?”

John blinked. “It looked like shit, Claire.” 

Shaking her mussed red head, his princess lowered herself to her own pillow. “Oh, my God. I’m turning into such a…mom.”

John flicked off the lamp beside his head. “Yeah, well, you are a mom.”

“I know, but I never wanted to be, like, a mommy-mom.” 

“Well,” he began, stretching an arm behind her shoulders. “If you ever get really excited over a Tupperware sale, I’ll let you know.” 

On the pillow to his left, Claire cringed. “Oh, God! If I do that, please do me a favor and shake me.”

Bender paused, then leaned over and grabbed a pen and legal pad off the bedside table. “I will need this in writing.” 

Claire laughed and took the pad from him.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I've been told that newborns can be remarkably quiet the first two weeks or so...and then all hell breaks loose and they let their parents know that they have ARRIVED!
> 
> Note 2: I was writing this while watching "Titanic", which explains the blue heart pendant. Alas, it's not from the crown of Louis XVI, or worth a bazillion dollars.
> 
> Note 3: This was really the first ever scene that popped into my head, and thus the inspiration for this fic. I don't know where it came from exactly--possibly 80s night on AMC, watching TBC and She's Having A Baby in a row at 2 am. In my exhaustion, the thought "Hey, wouldn't it be funny if Bender had to do all this crap?" zapped into my head and then...


	27. Chapter 26: Adventures in Babysitting

Chapter 26: Adventures in Babysitting

Brian had no idea how Jackie had conned him into this.

Oh, wait, yes he did. Not only had she dangled, ahem, *alone time* over his head—yes, Brian was headed for Johns Hopkins and hoped to be an award-winning neurologist and had remained a *cherry* until four months after he met Jackie, but he was still a guy—but also a 'Star Trek' convention that was taking place at the Chicago Hilton that weekend. Patrick Stewart, Captain Picard himself, Gates McFadden, and LeVar Burton were going to be there! And she had *tickets*. 

“I was going to take Kelsey,” Jackie hedged, alluding to her former roommate at Northwestern who didn’t give a crap about sci-fi. “But…if you come with me tonight, I’ll give you the second ticket instead.” 

This had Brian feeling like Sylvester the cat alone with Tweedy Bird, uncaged. 'Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!' 

And all he had to do was…spend the night looking after a newborn. 

Brian was notoriously *not* good with babies. When his sister, Mary, had come into the picture out of nowhere when he was almost ten, he felt blind-sided. Until that point, Brian had been his parents’ main priority, and he was perfectly happy being an only child. Mercedes, whom he was still mad at for her collusion with Mr. Takahari to keep him away from Baltimore, was proud of his every achievement, from reciting the entire alphabet at only eighteen months to winning his first Spelling Bee to playing a tree in his fourth grade class’ production of 'Robin Hood.' Ralph was less…well, just less, but Brian could always plainly see his father’s pride. This was all before his parents realized Brian was a budding genius and began piling on the pressure, to such a point, he ended up having severe suicidal thoughts.

Then, in the summer before fifth grade, Mercedes fell pregnant again, and Brian was going to be the designated Older Brother. 

When Mary was born in May of his tenth year, Mercedes and Ralph devoted every waking—and sometimes non-waking—moment to her. Suddenly, Brian’s accomplishments didn’t seem to matter much anymore. This fully hit him when he proudly showed his mother the perfect score he’d gotten on a *really hard* algebra test, and she merely barked that she was on the phone. 

The first time he held Baby Mary, he very nearly dropped her. He still wasn’t totally sure if the slip was on purpose or not. 

When Mercedes told him she had to run out to the post office for a minute and he needed to be a big boy and watch his sister, he promptly fell asleep, letting her fuss in her crib. He’d gotten a good week-long punishment for that. 

Once, when he’d tried bathing her, he washed her with dish soap. 

So, Brian wasn’t really looking forward to this little evening with Jackie and Baby Bender. Although he *adored* Danielle, and was sort of unnerved by how much she looked like John, he was terrified that he was going to drop her in the toilet or something. 

“Oh, stop worrying!” Jackie scolded beside him. They had just gotten off the shiny, gold elevator—after arguing back and forth with the maître ‘d downstairs that they were really Brian Johnson and Jacqueline Takahari, 1907’s approved visitors—and were now walking down the ornate corridor toward the apartment at the end of the hall. Claire and Bender’s old lady neighbor was outside retrieving her newspaper and scowling at them. “It’s going to be fine. You’re not going to set the apartment on fire or anything.”

“It’s not the apartment I’m worried about,” he mumbled, shoving his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled chinos. 

Jackie squeezed his arm. “Everything will be *fine*. And I’ll be there.”

Brian glanced at her as she rapped on the door. “Why’d you need me again?”

His girlfriend shrugged. “Two are better than one. And I wanted the company.”

John answered the door, dressed a bit more Bender than usual today in ripped black jeans, a matching tank top under a red and black checked shirt, red Chuck Taylors, and a pair of fingerless gloves. These days, Bender generally stuck to the jeans-t-shirt-work boots motif, but tonight, he may as well have been seventeen again. Claire had always called it his Trying Too Hard look. 

“Fucking finally,” he mumbled, stepping aside to let them into the apartment. 

Brian shrugged. “S—sorry. There was traffic on Lake Shore.” 

“Yeah,” Jackie agreed, shrugging off her red pea coat. “A drunk kid smashed into a telephone pole. He’s fine, but the grid is out for that whole block.”

John snickered and raked one gloved hand through his hair. “Bet everyone on Lake Shore Drive loves that. I predict the people will mob that kid with pitchforks and torches before the night is over.”

“Where’s the baby?” Jackie asked, hanging up her coat on the wooden hook. 

Bender inclined his head, silently telling them to follow, and there Danielle was in the living room, lying on her back on top of a patchwork coverlet, playing with one of those activity arches. Suspended from the midnight blue bars was a collection of space-related toys—interconnected stars, Mars, an astronaut, and what looked to be a UFO piloted by a green alien. Danielle was trying to connect with the dangly things above her head. 

In one corner, a boom-box blared Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire”. Brian and his girlfriend stared at the radio, then Bender questioningly. 

John’s shoulders bobbed. “She likes that song; don’t ask me why. Seems to energize her or something. I just hope she doesn’t grow up listening to Adult Contemporary.” 

Jackie strolled over to the infant squirming on the floor, bent over at the knee, a big, red smile on her face. “Hi, Danielle! You ready to have fun tonight?!”

Brian groaned beneath his breath, images of washing her with the hose or dropping her in the hamper haunting his brain. 

John grinned and slapped his shoulder. “Chin up, Brainiac. She might not even throw up all over you.” 

Brian paled. He was wearing his favorite C3PO sweatshirt! 

Bender laughed and smacked him again. Brian nearly fell over from the force of it. 

Today was Claire’s twenty-second birthday, and John was taking her out—the first real time either of them had made a night of it since bringing Danielle home. According to him, he was taking her to this Tex Mex place she liked on South Wabash, then sucking it up to suffer through a Madonna concert at Madhouse on Madison. “It’s her birthday, and she just pushed our kid out of her uterus. If she wants to listen to mediocre pop music, I shall accept my fate,” he’d said on the phone that afternoon. 

John had won the tickets over the radio after correctly answering the question “What is KISS’ Gene Simmons’ real name?” He’d surprised her with them that morning. 

When he called earlier to ask Brian to babysit, before he could stutter out a reply/excuse, Jackie took the receiver from his hands in a lightning fast maneuver and chirped that they’d be happy to. 

Inundated with notions of everything that could possibly go wrong, Brian had been about to opt out when Jackie dangled the 'Star Trek' convention tickets over his head. 

Huffing in an annoyed manner, Bender checked the time on his red Swatch. “Yo, Cherry! Let’s get a move-on; we’re gonna miss the concert!” Then, under his breath—“Not that this would particularly be a bad thing.” 

“Almost done!” came the shouted response from the master bedroom. 

Brian met his aggravated glare, eyes narrowed in confusion. “What’s she doing?”

Bender sneered and blinked his eyes to the ceiling. “It’s Claire. She’s Claire-ing herself up for this fine event.” 

The Princess emerged from the bedroom a moment later, looking like…well, like a redheaded Madonna. She wore a black mesh tank top over an ivory off-the-shoulder t-shirt, shiny, black calf-length leggings under a voluminous pink tutu, matching pink Converse, mesh fingerless gloves, and silver bangles nearly up to her elbow. A black headband pushed back her hair, and her face sparkled with body glitter and lots of pink makeup. 

She kinda looked like some sort of life-sized Madonna doll. 

John burst out laughing when she entered the living space. “Damn, Cherry. Halloween was two months ago.”

Claire stared flatly at him. “You’re one to talk, Axl Rose.” 

Bender tied a bandanna around his head and flashed the “rock on” symbol. 

As a new mother, Claire had all these rules he and Jackie absolutely had to follow in order to properly care for the Bender offspring. “Make sure you put her down by seven at the latest or she’ll never sleep. I left a few of her bottles in the fridge; they’re all breastmilk so don’t try to put any in your coffee or something like John did.” At this, Bender glowered, and Brian had to hold in his laughter. “The milk needs to be lukewarm. Please don’t heat any in the microwave; use a pot and the stove. If Danielle won’t go to sleep, play ‘I’ll Be There’ on the boom-box. There’s a cassette and stereo in the nursery. And make sure you lay her on her back. She needs a feeding every two hours—“ 

“Claire, I know most of this,” Jackie interrupted, sounding a mite offended. “I’m going to be a pediatrician, remember?” 

The redhead in the absurd Madonna outfit paused. “Right. Duh. New mom brain.”

Bender grabbed her around the wrist—her non-bangled wrist. “Okay, great, let’s go. I’m starving, and I’m in the mood for a fajita.” 

Once the two left, their night began. Brian eyed Baby Danielle warily whilst Jackie bent down to play with her, swinging the hanging doohickies to her delight. Brian sighed and crossed the room to settle on the couch, flipping on the television. 'MASH' was on. 

Thirty minutes later, he watched Jackie feed the baby, the little girl nestled in his girlfriend’s careful embrace. Danielle stared up at her smiling visage with those wide open eyes of hers, Bender’s eyes almost exactly. The knowledge never failed to rock Brian every time. 

'Genetics can work in mysterious ways.' 

After the feeding, Jackie played with Danielle a little bit, holding her erect so that she could clang a plastic hammer against that Fisher-Price xylophone Andy had bought her. Brian, still wary that he’d accidentally smash her little fingers with the hammer, remained on the couch watching 'Hogan’s Heroes' on CBS. 

But then, it was nearly Danielle’s bedtime, and Jackie required his assistance to give the baby a bath. His palms started to sweat as he followed her into the bathroom. 

Brian turned the sink’s faucet on while Jackie collected some baby towels. When she returned, she clutched in her hands a plastic infant tub, a miniature robe, and the towels, all the while wearing a quizzical expression on her face. “Brian. What are you doing?”

His gaze swiveled between the sink and his girlfriend. “I thought we were giv—giving her a bath…” 

Jackie snorted in laughter. “We are. But in the actual bathtub. She can’t fit in the bathroom sink! She’s a baby, not a Chihuahua.” 

Brian felt his face go pink. He *thought* he remembered his mother washing Mary in the bathroom sink, but that may have been the kitchen sink. Which was a lot bigger. 

Jackie placed the baby tub inside the porcelain one and turned the faucet on. Testing the water’s temperature, she adjusted the knob a bit, then reached for a pad of gentle wash soap and the Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo. 

“Okay,” she began, resting the items on the floor. “Can you go and get the baby? I left her in the playpen.” 

Brian gulped audibly, and Jackie rolled her eyes. “Brian, just get her. Just remember to support her head and don’t carry her like a bag of flour.” 

Easier said than done. 

In the gray playpen set up in a corner, Danielle lay trying to, it seemed to Brian, stretch her leg close enough to her face for her mouth to reach her toe. Hesitant, very hesitant, he bent down to pick her up out of the contraption, his heart pounding in his chest, hoping the perspiration on his palms hadn’t made his fingers too buttery. When he managed to grasp the little girl without grievous injury, he slowly ambled back down the hall toward the bathroom. 

He just hoped he wasn’t holding her like that bag of flour. 

In the bathroom, the tub was filled partway with water. Jackie kneeled before the basin, took a squirming Danielle from his stiff arms, shook her head, undressed the baby, and placed her inside the plastic baby tub. “Okay. I need you to hold the tub for me…”

Stupidly, ludicrously, Brian bent down and grasped the edge of the porcelain basin. Again, Jackie shook her head. “The baby tub, Brian!”

“Oh.” Once more, he felt his face flushing but did as she requested. 

Working some soap into a lather, he watched while she slowly trailed a purple washcloth down Danielle’s limbs, starting with her arms, her legs, then moving onto her stomach rounded with baby fat, her shoulders and neck, behind her back, and across her face and forehead. Danielle’s little hands rose when the washcloth trailed over her nose. 

This had Brian smiling, tucking a wet red curl behind the baby’s ear. 

Jackie nudged him with her knee. “See? It’s not that scary. Let me have the baby shampoo.”

Brian handed her the yellow and brown bottle. Jackie squirted a small amount in her palm and began washing the baby’s round head. 

Suddenly, Danielle made a small whine and started pinching toward a corner of the bathtub. Brian followed her eye line, reached for the yellow rubber duck on the ledge, and deposited it in her hands. Danielle rewarded him with a toothless grin. 

Beside him, Jackie sputtered, clearly charmed. “God, she even smirks like John. You know, if he didn’t have any teeth.” 

That had Brian snorting in merriment. 

Following the bath, Jackie lifted the baby out of both tubs—no way was he going to risk picking her up when she was soaking wet and slippery—towel-dried her, and wrapped her in that same tiny robe. Brian trailed her into the nursery next door and clapped the lights on while Jackie settled her on top of the changing table to wrap her in a new diaper. 

These had Roger Rabbit’s face on them. Of course they did. 

They put her in her crib, and he thought that was the end of it, he was done having to fret that he was going to do something completely stupid to that poor baby, but that, it turned out, was just the beginning. Within forty-five minutes, Danielle was yowling, and Brian was terrified that somehow, someway, he’d hurt her via osmosis. But she only required a feeding. 

Another hour later, she needed a diaper change. Forty minutes after that, she was screaming, and neither of them had any idea why. Jackie changed her pajamas in case she was uncomfortable or too hot in the fleece ones she’d put on her. 

That seemed to work for a bit until Danielle needed another feeding and then wouldn’t go back to sleep. 

'Jeez. No wonder Bender and Claire look like zombies all the time.' 

Brian’s girlfriend was exhausted from racing back and forth feeding her and changing her diaper and sitting with her, so, against his better judgment, he volunteered to take this one. A grateful Jackie threw herself back on the couch to halfheartedly watch a 'Bewitched' rerun on Nick at Nite. 

Tiptoeing into the nursery as if whether he was quiet mattered at all since Danielle was already awake, Brian awkwardly lifted her out of the ludicrous crib Claire had bought. Spotting the rocking chair in a corner, he, with the baby, sank himself into it, balancing her on his knees. Remembering what Claire had said about the “I’ll Be There” tape, he found it on the dresser beside them and fumblingly closed it inside the stereo. 

Instantly, the lyrical stylings of the Jackson 5 filled the room, and Brian rocked back and forth while rubbing the child’s back. She fell asleep on his chest within three minutes. Smiling like a dope, he was kind of reluctant to even put her back to bed. 

Once Danielle was back slumbering in her crib, Brian left the nursery, closing the door halfway behind him, and returned to the living room. Jackie’s attention moved from the TV to his face. “So? She’s okay?”

Brian wiped his hands together and lowered himself to sit beside her. “P—piece of cake.” 

Jackie snickered and rested her head on his shoulder.   
***  
Claire’s twenty-second birthday was turning out to be quite more preferable to her twenty-first, the year she should’ve been out celebrating her arrival into total legal adulthood. Instead, she cringed recollecting back to a year previous, when the whole group had met at Cochon Volant Brasserie, one of the few French restaurants in the Loop—including her parents. Nora had spent basically the whole time lambasting their poor waitress over perceived slights. Her water was not sparkling enough. Her salad lacked any red beets. Her chicken Francaise was dry inside. Etcetera ad nauseaum. 

Her twenty-second birthday, paradoxically, included no hide or hair of Nora Standish; it was just the two of them at her favorite Chicagoan Tex Mex place—not as fancy-schmancy as Cochon Volant, but Chico’s mixed the best margaritas in the city. 

Across from her in the high-backed booth, John positively devoured his two orders of fajitas, chugged his frozen margarita, and finished it all off with a churro sundae. Claire shook her head over her shrimp tacos and slice of tres leches cheesecake. He had the capacity to eat like he hadn’t touched food in a week. Where it all went, she had no idea. The guy didn’t have an inch of fat on him. 

Considering her less than perfect post-baby body, this annoyed her more than it generally would’ve. She ached for her size fours. 

Once John was finished stuffing his face like food was going out of style, he passed Claire her gifts, both of which he’d placed inside a Jessica Rabbit birthday bag that read “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way”. Claire ignored the wrapping, but squealed happily when she pulled out another gray off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, just like the one Jennifer Beals wore in 'Flashdance'; her old one had had to be incinerated after Danielle spat up all over it. Twice. 

The main present, though, was a small, sapphire heart-shaped pendant edged in tiny white diamonds and hanging off a white gold chain. She gasped upon opening the velvet-lined box; she couldn’t imagine how much this had cost! 

It was really too bad Dr. Devers had ordered them not to “resume relations” for six weeks post-birth. She still had two more to go. 

Oh, well. She could thank him in other ways. 

Following dinner, he (reluctantly) drove them both to Madison in the Trans-Am he was still arguing with himself whether to get rid of. John loved that car like the son Danielle wasn’t. But, alas, babies couldn’t ride on the roof, so…

Allison had laughingly suggested a minivan. He proceeded not to speak to her for a week. 

Near the entrance to Madhouse on Madison, John grumbled as he studied the tickets. Claire gazed over his shoulder, not bothering to rein in her smirk. He’d been hoping that their section was somewhere in the nosebleeds, but the radio station had splurged for standing tickets near the stage. 

At the start of the show, he rocked out when a local band he liked opened up for Madonna, but soon hit his inner snooze button as soon as Claire’s favorite pop star took the stage. While she excitedly bounced up and down, singing along to “Material Girl”, John plugged his headphones into his pocket TV to watch wrestling. He sneered at anyone who glared at him for daring to besmirch Madonna at her own concert. 

Claire mouthed apologies to them, chuckling. During “Borderline”, John turned the volume up on the TV. 

Sad for him, before the first encore, the batteries ran out, and he was forced to actually listen to the concert he’d taken her to.

During “Like A Prayer”, Claire caught him mouthing along to the words. “What? Even an ultra-auto-tuned, generic pop star can make one decent song. And the video pisses people off, so that’s funny.”

The one featuring Her Madgesty making out with Jesus. Her mother didn’t particularly like that video. 

Two encores later, John was about ready to hurl himself through a mosh pit comprised of crimp-haired and bangled Madonna fangirls, she could tell. At one point, he had plopped earmuffs over his head. Claire giggled at the image of him in his Trying Too Hard attire crowned with fuzzy purple muffs on either ear. 

At near midnight, they were driving home from the concert when the notion of *thanking him in other ways* for the sweatshirt, the gorgeous heart pendant, and the Madonna concert when she knew he loathed Madonna blinked over her head. Ensuing, John almost drove the Trans-Am clear into a ditch. They’d been cruising down West Wacker when the idea hit her. It seemed pertinent. 

On their floor, he was still dazed—so dazed that he walked right past Mrs. Lowing as she insulted his apparel. Claire tittered watching him attempt to stick the THIS ONE key in the lock. 

When they finally managed to enter the apartment, Claire stood at the edge of the living room, hands perched on her lips and chuckling with a crooked, close-mouthed smirk. Yet another habit she had gleaned from John. 

Claire cleared her throat at the two piles of melting wax on the sofa, both struggling to stay awake. The 'Mary Tyler Moore Show' blared on the TV, but they very likely had no idea what they were watching. 

At once, Brian and Jackie straightened, smashing their heads against each other and wincing. “We weren’t asleep!” Jackie jumped to assure her. “We were just…”

The Princess cocked an eyebrow. “Half-asleep?” 

Brian noticeably flushed. “We, um, p—put her to bed at seven, l—like you told us. Er, she woke up a few times.”

“Brian played for her that ‘I’ll Be There’ song,” Jackie continued, a tad bashful at having been caught drifting off by the parent of the baby she was sitting for. “Went right to sleep…” 

“Well, she’s awake now,” John interrupted, coming down the hall and into the living room with a wiggling Danielle in his grasp. He was still dressed like a brunet Vince Neil. “And she’s hungry. She tried to feed off me. I unfortunately had to tell her that, alas, I am not built that way.” 

Jackie and Brian rose, the former grinning. “We can get you a set of those detachable breasts that holds milk inside.”

In response, John gawked as if she just informed him that his pants had suddenly burst into flame.

Claire’s expression was deadpan as she took the baby from him. “I’ll feed her. Thanks for watching her, guys. You can stay here tonight if you want; it’s so late!”

“Yeah,” John scoffed, flicking his hair back. “That’s because fucking Madonna did three damn encores. Jesus, I wanted to shoot myself.” 

A bit later, after Danielle’s feeding, setting up the pull-out couch for Brian and Jackie, and showing off the necklace John had bought her, Claire retreated into the master bedroom and splayed out at his side. 

Smiling up at the ceiling, shrouded in the dark of the room, Claire murmured, “You almost totaled the car earlier.”

She could hear his grin in his voice. “Yeah, I did. But please do not let that deter you from future endeavors, Princess.”

Claire grunted in amusement, closed her eyes, and turned over to go to sleep.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: No play, I would totally babysit anyone's child for "Star Trek" convention tickets, especially if Sir Patrick was going to be there. 
> 
> Note 2: My brother, as a baby, would NOT go to sleep without someone putting on "Only the Good Die Young". It was very weird and random.
> 
> Note 3: Madhouse on Madison was a legit venue in Chicago that closed in 1994.
> 
> Note 4: Cochon Volant Brasserie is legit too, one of the only French places in that area. I made up Chico's tho.
> 
> Note 5:The "Like A Prayer" video caused a furor after it was released. People said Madonna was contributing to the Satanic Panic.


	28. Chapter 27: Do They Know It's Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally, I wouldn't update so quick but since today is the 35th (!!!) anniversary of the movie premiere, here's a shortie! Happy TBC Day! (Good Lord, am I old)

Chapter 27: Do They Know It's Christmas

Andy still felt like shit. 

Dani—'Danielle; the guy’s rubbing off on me'—was over a month old now. She seemed to be doing fine, as far as babies went. She spat up on stuff (including Andy’s old Shermer High letterman’s jacket; Ally had laughed and laughed for the rest of the night as he tried to futilely wash it off, ultimately declared surrender, then had it sent off to be dry-cleaned). But Claire’s OB assured them that that was normal for infants. She woke up in the middle of the night often, but what baby didn’t? The main thing Bender was worried about concerning Danielle seemed to be her predilection for soft rock. 

“If she makes me put on Hall & Oats, or—God forbid—Carly Simon, I’m going to start crying.” 

Claire also appeared to be doing okay. She wasn’t as tired anymore, though they *both* looked a bit like the walking dead. She’d had her three-week postnatal with their doctor, and everything looked copacetic. He never thought he’d see the day that Claire Standish gave up her beauty routine, however. 

Andy knew, logically, that neither he or Stubbie hadn’t been responsible for Claire’s early labor. But…still. The piece of shit feeling. 

He’d been harboring a low-key guilt complex since Danielle’s premature birth. He always tried to buck up around the new parents—Heaven knew they had enough on their shoulders—and they were often distracted enough to let Andy’s contrition hang-up go unnoticed. Ally, as always, was way more perceptive and responded by either hugging him or slugging him with a Moonstruck-ready “Snap out of it!” 

So, when none other than Nora Standish personally called him to invite him to Christmas Eve dinner at the Standish abode, he…first asked if she had the wrong number. Then when she explained that she was inviting all of Claire and *Johnathon’s* friends to break bread for the holiday, he agreed. 

“My daughter has been a bit…stingy with the baby,” Nora explained in her casual Noraness while Andy smothered his snicker at the usage of 'Johnathon'. “I hope that requesting her friends’ attendance at our annual Christmas Eve dinner will soften her a bit more.” 

'"Requesting our attendance." Jeez, does she think she’s Catherine the Great or something?' 

The Russian people wouldn’t have approved of Nora as their monarch. 

After he hung up, he called Allison to ask her if Nora had gotten to her yet. 

“Yeah,” she confirmed; he could hear her smirk through the receiver. “Do you think I should wear my spider web dress or my neon green leather pants and a spiked collar?”

He chuckled and then dialed Bri and Jackie to tell them the good news. 

That Sunday, the core group—sans Stubbie, who was working until the last possible second preparing a Christmas Eve party for John and Joan Cusack, his first celebrity clients, and Eleanor, who was helping him with photography for the event; something was definitely going on between those two—arrived on the great Standish property on Sycamore. Jackie had never been there before, and even she, a fellow richie, couldn’t help but stare agog up, up, up at the enormous white and brick Tudor. 

“Holy cow,” she breathed as they ambled up the cobblestone pathway, careful not to step on the manicured poinsettias lining either side. “And here I thought our townhouse was too much.” 

Ally sniggered where she walked beside him. She was carrying a foil-wrapped serving dish of her own homemade dessert—Coco Puffs lava cake. Honestly, it sounded pretty damn good. “Wait ‘til you see the inside.” 

Behind them, next to Jackie, Brian added, “Um, yeah. Just don’t touch any…anything.” 

On the Standishes’ massive wraparound porch, Andy raised a hand to ring the bell beside the carved burgundy front door. He could hear chatter inside, and a woman screeching about her favorite earrings. That could only be Mrs. Standish. 

A moment later, the Standishes’ housekeeper, Greta, answered the door. As usual, she wore her staid gray uniform, staid gray bun, and staid gray facial expression. Meaning none. The housekeeper was fiercely loyal to her employers, but pretty much disdained of everyone else. “Oh. Frau Sch-tandish mentioned Fräulein Sch-tandish’s Freunde come. Inside, inside. Jetzt!” 

In the front foyer, the mosaic floors of which were polished to a high shine, Andy unconsciously shrunk a bit into the off-the-rack charcoal suit from Macy’s he wore, glancing doubtfully at the stupid bottle of White Zinfandel he’d brought. His mom always told him that it was rude to arrive to a dinner party without contributing something, but, once again being presented with all the splendor and money the Standishes had at their disposal, he wished he had splurged for a bottle of wine that hadn’t come in a box. 

The place really was like a museum; there were conversation pieces—or Bragging Rights With A Receipt, as Greg called them—all over the house. From the Ming vase protected inside a transparent display case to the genuine Warhol hanging above the grandfather clock to the circa Revolutionary War rifle proudly showcased on the marbleized mantle, the Standish abode positively reeked of money and exclusivity and “not on your life can you afford any of this shit, bub”. Even the suede sofas and chaise lounges and high-backed wing chairs boasted an Eau de First Class Lounge aboard the Titanic. 

Everywhere, early arrivers ambled around the expansive first floor, mingling while carrying cut crystal goblets of Chardonnay. Waiters dressed in livery seamlessly darted between clusters of people, offering plates of aperitifs, all stuff that Andy had never seen in his lifetime. Cracked crab on baked brioche. Some bizarre pink shrimp mousse. Bacon-wrapped foie gras. And, certainly, lots and lots of Beluga caviar on toast points. 

Yet, as another waiter breezed by, Andy blinked when he observed the distinctly American h’or dourves dotting the sterling silver serving plate. 

The waiter in question paused, turned around, and smiled banally at them. “Chicken wing braised in Worcestershire sauce? Miniature hamburger on a toasted poppy seed bun? Cocktail frankfurter deep fried in Tuscan olive oil?” 

As one, the four turned to regard each other, shrugged, then wordlessly plucked a weenie. Andy dipped his in the glass serving dish of spicy mustard. The waiter moved on. 

“Not exactly Standish-level, but I can’t say no to a cocktail wiener,” Ally said with her mouth full. 

Brian coughed. “Um, I think that explains it.”

Andy followed Bri’s chin gesture. Splayed out on a mauve and cherry wood fainting couch perched near the fireplace—over which hung a huge ass portrait of Nora draped in a fox fur stole—lay Bender, one booted foot hanging off the piece of furniture and the other perched on the carved arm. A plate of wings, weenies, and burgers was balanced on his stomach. 

To his left, in a matching high-backed wing chair, Claire sat holding the baby while her relatives fussed over her. The redhead’s own facial expression was that of an anxious deer trapped in the headlights. Catching Andy’s eye, she mouthed “Help!” 

Claire murmured what he figured were excuses to the gaggle of women and rose with Danielle to greet them, looking incredibly relieved. “Thank God. Aunt Theresa, her daughters, and Mrs. Buckley were driving me insane.”

“Who’s Mrs. Buckley?” Jackie asked. A member of the hired staff breezed by to take her coat in the blink of an eye. 

Claire’s lips flattened. “My parents’ neighbor. She’s a bit off her rocker. Keeps trying to convince me not to use baby monitors because ‘the CIA is listening in, you know’.” 

That had Ally nearly choking. “I love a good conspiracy theory, but that’s a bit much, even for me.”

“Wh—what’s John doing?” Brian again gestured to the sprawled-out burnout on the chaise lounge popping mini burgers like they were grapes and he was a sultan.

Claire rolled her eyes. “Mother is pulling out all the stops to get me to leave her with Danielle. Or bring her around more or whatever. Including trying to be nice to John. A few days ago, she called me up to ask what sort of foods he liked, then amended the catering menu. He’s luxuriating in it.”

Andy shook his head. Nora Standish hated Bender, that much was evident. But, apparently, she loved her granddaughter more than she loathed the very sight of her father. 

Allison sniggered into the mocktail she had pilfered off a passing waiter’s tray. “She must be really desperate.”

“She’s been downright kowtowing to him, and he loves it.”

Later that evening, all the guests were arranged around the Standishes’ massive dining room table, a 25-foot behemoth carved of the darkest wood, the table’s legs and matching cushioned chairs claw-footed and curled under. In the middle stood an antique candelabra over a red velvet tablecloth. 

Mr. Standish, at the head of the table, rose, a gracious smile about his lips. “I want to thank you all for coming and celebrating the holiday with us. Especially my new granddaughter.” 

Danielle was upstairs asleep in Claire’s old baby cradle, which Greta had dug out of the attic. 

Nora, too, stood on her teetering crimson pumps, and Andy had to bite back a groan. “I also want to thank our delightful Chef Francesco, who made tonight’s dinner, using dishes inspired from his native Florence. Thank you, Chef Francesco. Bellissima!” 

The big guy in the black and white chef’s uniform replied “Mille Grazie” for everyone to hear. Beneath his breath, Andy heard him mutter “Broad still thinks I’m from Tuscany. I was born in Ohio”. And he almost choked on a toast point. 

Suffice to say, he had never experienced a meal quite like this one. There were seven courses. Seven! They started with antipasti and this weird cabbage and bean soup. It was served with day-old bread, and was cold. Andy barely picked at it. Next came a ravioli-like dish filled with ricotta and, ugh, spinach. He didn’t care what Popeye said; spinach was gross. His old man had used to force him to shovel that shit before wrestling matches. 

The stuffed baked potatoes were good, and the Florentine-style beefsteak; he never said no to meat. But the emphasis on bean-related cuisine was threatening to give him a wicked case of food poisoning. 

'Remember. You’re here for your friends', he had to remind himself when staring down at something that looked like green chicken on greener bread. 

This was not the Italian food he was used to. But the Standishes prided themselves on being continental. 

Dessert of chocolate profiteroles and cannolis almost made up for it all. 

That, and observing Mrs. Standish, the Noracaine of legend herself, bending over backwards to treat Bender like an actual equal. And not a pile of dog shit beneath her heel.

Seated beside Ally a few chairs down from Nora, he watched as she pasted a frozen smile on her face, watched it grow and morph. It was like something out of one of those Claymation commercials with the singing and dancing raisins. “I do hope you are enjoying your Stracotto, Johnathon. My daughter did say you are partial to meat.” 

Again, Andy nearly choked on his Coke, trying to smother his laughter with coughing. To his left, Ally, too, was cackling. Even Brian, across from him, looked tickled. Jackie just shook her head. 

Bender scowled. At his side, Claire was giggling into her napkin. 

'Oh, man. He’s never gonna live this one down.' 

“I prefer seafood. Ow!” He glared askance at the Princess, who’d probably kicked him underneath the table or something. 

Nora, plainly, was not comprehending any of this double entendre-filled conversation. “I don’t believe any seafood was prepared for the main course, but I can have Chef Francesco whip something up…” 

Claire cleared her throat. “That won’t be necessary, Mother.”

Bender was snickering beside her. As was Allison next to Andy. 

When he loudly slurped his soup, Nora said nothing. When he spat out a piece of that green bread, Nora cringed but said nothing. When he took a bite of a carrot and pretended to be Bugs Bunny, she actually smiled. Slightly. 

The guy was pushing it, and on purpose, and it was fucking *working*. 

Andy bit into a cannoli, both amazed and flabbergasted. 

After dinner, some of the guests gathered around the stunningly decorated Christmas tree in the parlor while the others danced in the adjacent ballroom. Yes, the Standishes had a ballroom. A smaller one, in comparison to, like, the one at the Viceroy, but still. Ballroom. A big ass dance hall. And Richard Standish had hired a five-piece orchestra for the evening. 

What it must’ve been like to be that filthily, absurdly rich. 

The family gathered around trading gifts. Andy had already given Allison her presents when they visited his mom and brothers for lunch, a new documentary about the JFK assassination on VHS and a gift certificate to her favorite record store; Ally mostly preferred gifts she could use, not pretty trinkets. In return, she’d surprised him with third row Bears tickets.

Claire, on the other hand, definitely appreciated a pretty trinket or three. Every year, she assured Bender that he didn’t have to get her anything seeing as her birthday was so close to Christmas, but he knew that was bullshit and she still expected a little something. He bought her a cherry charm bracelet. In turn, she gave him a new denim jacket and scarf, and that “World’s Greatest Dad” mug.

Mr. and Mrs. Standish may have gotten on like oil and fire most of the time, but that still didn’t prevent him from buying her an extravagant present every year. The ring he purchased for his wife nearly blinded Andy. She then presented him with a new Jaguar. That she'd purchased with his money. 

Brian and Jackie each traded leather-bound medical journals, chuckling that they bought each other the same present. 

Josh and his boyfriend were in Germany spending the holiday with the latter's family. A half a world away from the Standish family drama unfolding before Andy’s very eyes as Nora and her sister argued over who had to endure “the chore” of visiting their mother this year. Andy silently hoped he never ever came to feel that way about his own mom.

It didn’t take long for this to escalate into a quarrel between Mr. Standish and his own siblings—his sister’s alcoholism and refusal to stay the full thirty days in rehab, his brother name-dropping him in order to get better…everything—and Andy wished he was back at his mom’s watching 'Black Christmas' with Ally and his brothers. 

Truly, the only redeeming part of the evening was getting to witness little Danielle’s first Christmas. Draped in a teeny red and gold velvet dress, a bow around her head, Claire held her in her lap as Bender gifted her with a stuffed dragon toy. It was green with pink spots. Nora gave her a bunch of clothes. Richard purchased one of those baby swings that Bender would have to put together. 

As the night wound down, Richard played “Silent Night” on the polished black Steinway while Claire sang along in her soft soprano. Danielle lay in a playpen goggling up at the indoor Christmas lights. 

Christmas at the Standishes’—festive holiday fun combined with a heaping plate of wine-soaked filial issues. 

Back in Chicago, vegging out in front of the TV at Housely, a beer in one hand and the remote in the other, a mite drunk—but a happy drunk—Bender confessed that he never would’ve gotten through that spectacle without them there. 

Then he promptly passed out on the floor. 

Andy felt a bit less like a piece of shit as he and Brian shoved a pillow under his head.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Fact: the set designers for the movie originally had Bender's locker looking a bit less...Bender. There were lots of random soft rock photos on his door, including Hall & Oats. Judd Nelson took one look at that, laughed, and fixed it. 
> 
> Note 2: Another fact: John Cusack was *this close* to being Bender. They flew him out to audition and everything. When he didn't get it, he was piiiiiiissed. I ain't cryin'. I could NOT have written this with Cusack in mind.
> 
> Note 3: These days, with the Internet of Things, baby monitors CAN be hacked, though likely not by the CIA. It happened to a couple in Houston recently. The asshole threatened to kidnap the baby.
> 
> Note 4: I looked up more...circumspect Florentine dishes for this part. The cabbage and bean soup was scrounged up by Italian peasants in the Renaissance era. Now, it's a downright delicacy and served in high-priced hoity-toity Italian joints.
> 
> Note 5: Come on, you know a kid named Dani has to have a dragon toy xD


	29. Chapter 28: The Bachelor Party

Chapter 28: The Bachelor Party

The New Year passed seamlessly, the decade of the 80s closing as soon as the ball dropped on 1990. Stubbie threw an insane party, one that was twenties glamor themed, and Allison got to show off the tiered black flapper dress that had belonged to her grandmother during her teen years in the Roaring 20s. She went all out, pairing the garment with fishnet stockings, red Mary-Jane heels, a genuine ostrich feather headband, and a shiny cigarette holder (this ending with a candy cigarette, since Ally didn’t smoke). Claire had helped her with her dark, smoky makeup. Andy, too, worked the part of upper class twenties gentleman in a tailed tux, oxfords, and slicked back hair. 

Her sister went deep with her costume, attempting to look as Mary Pickford as possible in one of her glamorous pink gowns and matching elbow-length gloves. She even cut her hair in the traditional twenties shingle, curled the ends, and added finger waves to her bangs. Stubbie was the Douglas Fairbanks to her Mary in one of the actor’s classic bowtie tuxes and glued on pencil mustache. 

Brian and Jackie went as Irene Curie-Joliot and Frederic Joliot, the daughter of and former assistant to Marie Curie. As both Brains explained, the two gifted scientists were active throughout the twenties and eventually won a Nobel Prize for Chemistry the following decade for their joint work in production of radioactive elements. Or something. Jackie donned a short-haired wig and staid dress; Brian oiled his hair and wore an ill-fitting suit; both draped themselves in white lab coats and carried around microscopes. No one had any idea who they were supposed to be at first glance. 

Claire somehow convinced Bender into a couples’ costume. Ally figured this one-time concession had less to do with his simply being annoyed and not wanting to argue, as he claimed, and more with his lingering gratitude and awe of Claire’s delivery. He was giving into her more than he usually did. So, she successfully coerced him into a circa WWI uniform while she planted a curly blonde wig over her red hair and shimmied into a spangly silver drop-waist dress—F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. She even got him to pomade his hair. 

“At least I get to dress like a soldier and not some pansy-ass scientist,” he’d drawled in his costume dress greens, looking Brian up and down. 

Claire acquiesced and dropped Danielle at her parents’ for the evening. “Josh and I were raised by an army of nannies. My mom never even personally fed me. If Danielle doesn’t break her by the end of the night, I’ll be shocked.” 

At Stubbie’s tricked-out warehouse, they danced to twenties music and drank twenties cocktails, and watched the ball drop on some very not-twenties television sets suspended from three walls. 

Afterwards, they drove by the Standishes’ to pick up Danielle, and Nora handed the baby over while covered in spit up and shaking as she tried to light a cigarette. 

Now, three weeks later, it was the evening before her and Andy’s nuptials. Allison was both stoked and a nervous wreck, something she rarely was, so Claire had called the rest of the girls for a night out. Out of desperation, Danielle was left with Mrs. Lowing. Ally knew that John *never* would’ve agreed to this if he’d been there; Alas, he was with the rest of the guys at Andy’s bachelor party, which he’d taken upon himself to coordinate. 

Allison was pretty sure Bender’s vision of the perfect bachelor party would include a stripper or two. She didn’t particularly care. She trusted Andy. And a girl had to eat somehow. 

Thus, wearing her favorite spider web dress and red fishnets, draped in a white “I’m the Bride!” sash, a plastic tiara perched on her head, she, Claire, Jackie, Megan, Eleanor, and Sloane (and decidedly *not* Benny) threw caution to the wind all over the Windy City. First, they went to the Secret Sound, a bar in the West Loop famous for its tropics-inspired cocktails and rum-soaked everything. Ally drank down two Hurricanes and three Mango Daiquiris and still had room for more; she was no lightweight like Eleanor and Sloane, who were practically dancing on tables after one Blue Hawaiian. After that, they hit up the House of Blues, where the Chippendale’s guys were putting on a show. And what a show! Allison had downright blushed when this big, buff guy who kinda resembled Patrick Swayze gave her a lap dance and stuck his crotch in her face. 

At the end of the night, Claire, their designated driver, drove them back to Housely, where she picked up Danielle from her crotchety neighbor, fed her, and put her to bed as the rest of them changed into pajamas for a horror movie marathon. Allison demanded 'Halloween' first. 

The guys did not return home that night, meaning they were doing the God she didn’t know if believed in knew what. The only one truly worried was Jackie.

“What if he’s hurt?” she fretted for the remainder of the night, speaking over the movies. “What if he’s lost? What if he’s with another girl?!” 

At this, the rest of them giggled. 'Brian with another girl. The multiverse really does exist'. 

Claire assured her that Brian would never, he was crazy about her, and if he was with the other boys, he was fine. 

The next morning, Megan made her signature cinnamon bun pancakes. Allison sprinkled Fruit Loops on top of hers.

She couldn’t have imagined a better, more fitting bachelorette party.  
**  
Meanwhile, at an arbitrary Holiday Inn downtown, Andy, Brian, Bender, Ty, Josh, Greg, Stubbie, Ferris, and Cameron were passed out in various spaces throughout their shitty hotel room. Bender was asleep in the bathtub with his feet hanging limp over the edge. Stubbie snored on the floor near the heater, one arm spread out in front of him, fist still clutching a can of Bud. Greg and Josh rested in plastic and rubber lounges they’d, in a drunken stupor, nabbed from the pool area just outside and pushed into the already congested room. Ty slept facedown in a pile of coats in the corner nearest the front door. Ferris lay in the window seat with Cameron on the floor beneath him curled up like a puppy. 

Andy and Brian occupied the same hotel bed, despite there being two. When the Sport blinked his eyes open and confusedly realized that the Brain was drooling on his neck, he cringed and pushed him off. 

“Ew, dude! What the fuck?!” Andy cried, looking down at Brian now splayed on the thin red carpeting. 

Brian wearily cracked open his eyes. “Wha--? Where…where am I?”

Ferris, also waking up, was the one to reply. “Holiday Inn, Johnson. It’s—“ He glanced at his Casio. “—7:30 AM.” 

Brian’s eyes went so broad, it was almost comical. “Oh! I n—need to call Jackie!”

Bender stumbled out of the bathroom and cracked a whipping motion.

Andy scoffed. “You’re one to talk, Mr. The Florist Knows Me By Name.”

Bender scowled. His hair was sticking up in the front like he was a porcupine, and the Black Sabbath band t-shirt he’d slept in was wrinkled to all hell. The effect was not very threatening. “I’m not whipped! I’m just…” 

Up went one blond eyebrow. “Whipped?”

The burnout glowered deeper. “…shut up!” 

On the floor inches from the vibrating heater, Stubbie groaned, slowly rose to a kneel, and massaged his temples. “Oh, God, not so loud! I have a hangover that can kill a donkey.” 

Sitting up in the window seat, Ferris grinned the same smartass smirk that had driven Rooney crazy all four years of high school. “That’s because you don’t know the right way to drink alcohol, my friend!”

From the floor, Stubbie glared at him. “You drank more than me! You should have your head in the toilet.” 

Cameron, dressed in one of his many Gordy Howe jerseys, yawned and wobblingly shuffled to his feet, still sheathed inside the black Nike Shox he’d worn the evening before. “Don’t bother. Ferris has some confidential formula or routine or something to stave off hangovers. He can drink as much as he wants, but he won’t tell anyone what the secret is. Not even me or Sloane.” 

Ferris studied his short fingernails. “A magician never reveals his secrets.” 

As one, Ty and Greg bolted awake and raced to the bathroom, presumably to puke their guts out. 

Josh, who never had to battle monstrous hangovers because life wasn’t fair, folded his hands behind his head where he lay on the stolen lounge and smirked. “Sorry, fellas. I feel fine here.”

Attempting to fix the mess on his head with his gloved hands, Bender snorted once. “Of course you do.”

Stretching, Andy perched on the edge of the mattress, wincing when his fingers brushed a cut on the back of his neck he couldn’t for the life of him remember getting. Like the other guys, he was still clad in the same clothes he’d put on the previous night before leaving the apartment and dubiously following Bender around downtown Chicago—a U of C Wrestling t-shirt, dark wash Levis, and a pair of white tube socks. He shoved his feet into the slightly beat-up Adidas he’d kicked beneath the bed last night and tried to ignore his pounding migraine. 

On the phone beside him, Brian seemed to be placating Jackie, who sounded pretty pissed. Andy could hear her shouting through the receiver. Wasn’t doing anything for his headache, that was for sure. 

Ty and Andy’s big bro emerged from the bathroom, matching purplish, bruise-like shadows underlining their eyes. Greg’s normally beige skin tone had blanched a sickly corpse white, and Ty’s darker complexion was tinged with gray. The whites of their eyes were spattered with angry red lines in the corners. 

Andy chuckled inwardly. Hell, he probably looked worse. It’d been *his* bachelor party, after all. 

“Did I drink tar?” Greg asked, tripping toward the black Converse he’d uncaringly kicked across the room last night. 

Bender’s coworker clutched his stomach. “Man, if you did, so did I. Tar or cement.” 

Still before the mirror, Bender grimaced after the fifth time he attempted to stick down a wayward cowlick, flipped the bird at his own reflection, and gave up. “Dude. I told you guys not to drink that cheap ass malt.”

Greg was in the process of blinking his Clark-blue eyes until they settled and he could see clearly again. Andy was familiar with his brother’s post-binge process. He’d gone out drinking with his older brother quite a few times, before and after he was legally able to. “What cheap ass malt?”

“The one you got in a vending machine outside the liquor store, geniuses.” Bender grasped a dubious-looking white bottle of Olde English that was spelled Olt Inglisch featuring a drunk cartoon robot mascot. 

Ty moaned and rubbed his forehead. “Never again.”

Cameron dug into the pockets of his khakis and produced a bottle of Advil, which he passed around to everyone who required it. Knowing what Andy did of Cameron Frye, he wasn’t at all surprised that the guy kept a bottle of ibuprofen on hand.

Everyone sans Josh, Bender, and Ferris took two of the gel tablets. Andy washed his down with a warm can of grape soda. 

Greg threw himself into the vacated pool lounge. “What the hell did we do last night?”

Stubbie unsteadily clambered to his feet. “Search me.”

Leaning against the plastic dresser painted to look like wood, Bender scoffed. “Here I plan the most awesome bachelor party in history, and you dicks don’t remember it.” 

Andy certainly did. When Bender had told him a week earlier that he was taking charge of the bachelor party, insisting that it was what he was made for, Andy remained skeptical and a mite scared. But, since their resident party planner was busy organizing the wedding already, he let the Criminal do as he pleased. Thus, a giddy Bender dodged around the city with plans running through that burnt out brain of his. 

Needless to say, Andy had been right to be cautious. 

Last night, the guys picked him up—eh, kidnapped him was more apt, dragging him only just dressed after emerging from the shower, still in the process of towel-drying his hair, with a burlap sack placed over his head—at seven on the dot in a limousine they had all pitched in to rent. Their driver was paid extra to ignore any of their antics, including Stubbie and Greg drunkenly standing/swaying through the sunroof and Bender, totally sober, doing the YMCA on the hood. 

First, they went off to the Bull to get still drunker and play games. An hour later, Bender had the driver escort them to Chicago Stadium for a Blackhawks game, courtesy of their very own Ticketmaster, Stubbie. Sitting right on the penalty line, Andy and company whooped and cheered for the next two hours while the Blackhawks kicked the Flyers’ asses. After that, the limo drove them to a strip club called The Jiggly Room, where Greg paid for his younger brother to get a lap dance from an exotic dancer called Purple Mountains Majesty. Ahem. There was a really good reason she was nicknamed that; Andy blushed recalling the memory. 

Brian, too, had received a dance from the lady—paid for by Bender, obviously—and he sniggered remembering the Brain’s stricken-intrigued countenance.

Later, they hijacked the McDonald’s across the street from the club and stuffed their faces with Big Macs until they puked. Then, they bought a whole shitload of beer from the liquor store and checked themselves into the crappy Holiday Inn, arms laden with alcohol and candy, where they put on a John Wayne movie and promptly passed out cold. Even Bri. 

The only holdout was Bender himself. He hadn’t drunk more than a bottle of Heineken the night previous. Dude was serious about cutting down the alcohol now that Danielle was in the picture. 

Now, it was the following morning, and most of them wanted to off themselves. But, Andy had to admit, it *had* been a pretty awesome evening. 

He hoped Ally’d had as much fun last night as he. 

Then—

'Shit! ALLY!'

Suddenly energized, Andy began to pick up the errant cans and bottles and candy wrappers from the floor and hurl them into the wastebasket. “We have to clean up! Let’s go, let’s go!”

Greg yawned and stretched his arms wide. “What’s the rush, little bro?”

Andy glared at the older boy, incredulous. “Hello?! I’m getting married today!” 

From the pile of coats on the floor, Bender snorted as he searched for his denim jacket. “Relax, Sporto. The ceremony’s not ‘til six.” 

“Still!” Andy exclaimed, pushing the burnout aside and looking for his own windbreaker. “I’ve gotta go! I’ve gotta get ready and…all that shit!” 

Perched on the end of one of the beds, Ty laughed. “What, you need to do your face or something?”

The Sport ignored him and pulled the blue windbreaker from the pile. 

Brian finally hung up the phone, a bit of a cowed look on his face. “Wh—what’s happening?”

Ferris padded calmly across the room to retrieve his discarded loafers. “Ah, Andrew here is freaking out because he’s getting married today.” Bueller curled a hand over Andy’s shoulder. “Relax, guy. That old church will still be there by six.” 

Andy shrugged his windbreaker on. “It’s the morning of my wedding, and I’m hungover to hell!” Desperately, he grabbed the labels of Ferris’ polo and pulled the skinnier man toward him. “Ferris! I need that hangover remedy. Now!” 

Ferris Bueller stepped out of his clutches and brushed any imaginary wrinkles out of his clothes. “Okay, okay! Come outside with me. I don’t want the peons to overhear.”

Behind him, he heard the rest of the guys jeer. 

That was how Andy found himself gargling an unholy concoction of peanut butter, raw eggs, and orange juice he pilfered from the continental breakfast buffet in the lobby. But the subsequent lingering taste of horror was worth it; Ferris was as good as his word—his hangover was gone within fifteen minutes. 

The guys checked out and hailed separate cabs. Andy paid the driver a bit extra to rush, raced inside his Millennium Park apartment, and quickly and fumblingly changed into the charcoal Givenchy suit he had rented for the occasion. It was double-breasted, with a blood red waistcoat and tie. The look was finished off with shiny black Ferragamo shoes that he’d spent a small fortune purchasing. 

Once the sleeves were buttoned shut and his late Grandpa Paul’s absurd Humpty-Dumpty cufflinks inserted, Andy stumbled into the bathroom and slicked back his hair using Suave Extra Hold. That done, he jogged out of the apartment…only to return a moment later when he realized he’d forgotten his car keys.  
**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: My great-grandma was also a flapper in her teen years. That black dress Allison wears was hers, which she gave to me later on.
> 
> Note 2: The Secret Sound is legit and is quite famous for its cocktails.
> 
> Note 3: Shoutout to that memorable SNL sketch with Patrick Swayze and Chris Farley trying out for Chippendale's. RIP, guys
> 
> Note 4: That drunk cartoon robot mascot is none other than the other Bender, Bending Bender Rodriguez from "Futurama"
> 
> Note 5: The Jiggly Room--any "Married With Children" fans will recognize that name xD It's Al's favorite nudie bar. "MWC" is also set in Chicago, so I thought it was pertinent. Purple Mountains Majesty was one of the dancers featured in an episode.


	30. Chapter 29: It's A Nice Day for A White Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many are reading the chapter title in Billy Idol's voice? "Is it gonna be a...*whoite weddoing?"

Chapter 29: It's A Nice Day for A White Wedding

At St. Francis’, Ally could hear people starting to pour inside the creepily beautiful church. At the time, it was about ninety minutes before the ceremony, and Stubbie was darting in and out of hers and Andy’s dressing rooms like a maniac, clad in a dark blue pinstripe suit, looking oddly like an old-timey gangster. He’d really gotten into the 1920s theme of his wild New Year’s Eve party. 

'I guess that would make El his moll'. 

Her bridesmaids all looked lovely, though. Claire had been shocked when Allison chose the blood red off-the-shoulder trumpet gowns instead of, say, something Queen Victoria post Albert’s death would’ve been at home in. Each wore their hair curled, their lips the same shade of red as their dresses, their complexions pale to match the “consumptive-chic”, as Claire called it, motif. 

The girls were helping her into her own dress, the gorgeous black and white ball gown from Feldklein’s. Jackie was fastening the black button at the nape of her neck while Claire straightened the tulle skirt. Eleanor was attempting to do something with her bushel of hair; ultimately, she ended up setting it in a low chignon. 

Once the black velvet sash was tied around her waist and the heeled sandals were secured—she was going to kick these off as soon as the ceremony was over; the buckles were biting into her ankles—Claire bid her sit down before the large, ovular vanity in her dressing room, dug through Danielle’s baby bag, and began pulling out her collection of brushes, glosses, shadows, creams, and liners. 

Danielle herself lay sleeping in her baby carrier. Claire’s mother was supposed to be watching her at the moment, but she and her husband had had an argument, and the woman packed up her bags and fled for the Caribbean. The only other option was leaving the baby with Claire and Bender’s neighbor again, which Claire was reluctant to do now; the night before, Mrs. Lowing returned Danielle with a weird mark drawn on her forehead and reeking of onions. That was a big enough red flag for her. 

So, admitting defeat, the Princess draped the two month old in a pretty pink dress and headband and toted her along. So far, neither she nor Danielle had burst into tears for no reason. 

Crouching before her, Allison closed her eyes while Claire did her thing—contouring and luminizing and outlining. She managed not to stick the liner in her eye, and kept the makeup simple to highlight her “statement lips”, the same red as that of her bridesmaids. When she was done, Allison gazed at her reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing herself. 

Joseph knocked on the dressing room door just as Eleanor was placing the Spanish lace veil over her head. Allison’s father—biologically, anyway—stuck his head inside, then pushed all the way through and shut the door behind him with a soft click. He actually looked sober this evening; there were no broken capillaries or twitching of the eyes or reddened skin, and his cobalt blue suit lay straight on his person. Allison breathed a sigh of relief. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about him schmoozing the guests or hitting on Claire and Jackie. 

'Bender would kill him. Not that it wouldn’t be funny.' 

“Ah,” Joseph Reynolds breathed in his upper-crusty Philadelphian accent. “Well. Don’t you look quite lovely, Allison.”

Eleanor and Allison exchanged knowing glances. Claire cleared her throat and excused herself to feed Danielle. 

“Thanks, Dad,” she mumbled, reluctantly taking his proffered arm. “Where’s Lenore? I mean, Mom?” 

Mr. Reynolds coughed awkwardly. “She’s outside on her cellular phone arguing with Belinda.”

As one, Allison and Eleanor rolled their eyes. Though Lenore Reynolds had effectively retired, she continued to have a hand in her practice—or assumed she did. A dermatologist, Lenore had founded her own private practice in Wicker Park fifteen years ago and now considered it more precious than her daughters. Dr. Belinda Sawyer had been her first hire and now was the director of the office. Lenore was on the phone with her constantly. Lecturing her on how the place should be run. 

Why Lenore had even retired in the first place, Ally had no idea.

Allison would’ve been annoyed that Lenore couldn’t put the cell phone down for her wedding day, but she hadn’t expected anything less. 

Stubbie rushed inside the dressing room for the umpteenth time, again without bothering to knock, a fedora perched on his head and a walkie-talkie in one hand. In the other, he carried a small, square box. 

Allison grinned as Andy’s voice blared over the walkie-talkie. “Something blue,” he said, and she plucked out of the box a sparkling azure hair comb. Eleanor immediately whisked it from her palm and fastened it to her chignon. 

The Something Blue Andy had promised her weeks ago. She already had her Something Old—her great-grandmother’s freshwater pearl necklace—her Something New—the dangling zombie earrings in her lobes—and her Something Borrowed—one of Claire’s diamond bracelets. Now, everything was complete. 

“I love it,” she squeaked into the receiver. “Have you opened mine yet?” 

There was a crackle on the other end. Then—“Zombie socks! Awesome, Al, I’m putting them on now.” 

Somewhere in the background, she heard Bender guffaw. 

They had a theme to stick to—Andy and Ally’s Gloriously Gory Undead Wedding. So had boasted their invitations. 

Claire returned from feeding Danielle. Stubbie led everyone out into the hall, sans Andy, who was already being escorted up the aisle, and maneuvered them into a line. Inside the chapel, Saint-Saëns’ “Danse Macabre” played on the piano. 

First, the Jockstrap gently coerced Andy’s cousin, Sarah, inside and down the aisle, sprinkling rose petals every few seconds. Beside her trod Carol’s English bulldog, Tank, with a red pillow strapped to his back; on top of the cushion lay the rings. 

Then, Stubbie sent off Brian and Jackie, the former dressed in a dark gray suit and red waistcoat and the latter loosely clutching a nosegay of blood red roses and white daisies. 

Claire and Bender were next, he complaining about the tie his girlfriend had forced him to wear—“Fucking leashes!”—and she depositing Danielle’s carrier in the arms of a bewildered Stubbie. “What? I can’t walk down the aisle with a baby!”

Stubbie’s eyes had nearly fallen out of his head at this point. “B—but I don’t know the first thing about babies!” 

Claire shook her head. “Just hold her until the ceremony’s over. You don’t have to do anything else.”

Beside her, Bender snickered. “And pray she doesn’t spit up all over you. Hey, it’s a church; the Lord may hear you.” 

Holding the carrier out in front of him, Stubbie appeared terrified. Allison cackled. 

Following Bender and Claire, Maid of Honor Eleanor and Best Man Greg sailed down the red carpet—yet not without Stubbie’s grumbling, to Andy’s brother’s entertainment. 

Allison inhaled deeply. At her side, her father actually appeared…well, was she seeing things or did the man look misty-eyed? 

'Nah. Probably seeing things.'

The music abruptly changed to a freaky version of “Here Comes the Bride”, and Joseph turned to her. “All ready? Are we all set?”

Stubbie was muttering into a headset, but flashed a thumbs-up. 

The doors opened. And then Ally took a step forward.   
**  
Andy’s mother was weeping as she and his old man accompanied him up the aisle. 

In fact, she was dripping all over her new cream-colored suit, her sniffles and sobs nearly drowning out the version of “Danse Macabre” the pianist was playing flawlessly on the piano. On his other side, his old man wordlessly passed Carol a tissue, which she took gratefully. 

Andy was nervous, of course, but it was more a nervous-excited than a nervous-anxious. He had meant every word when he proposed to Ally; he couldn’t wait to marry her. What irked him more were the dozens of pairs of eyes staring up at him as the three came to a stop at the head of the cobblestoned walkway. Oh, and also his mom’s continued sniveling and ruminations of “My baby!”

He couldn’t believe how many people were here, and he’d invited them all himself! His side was near to bursting with relatives and friends of relatives and neighbors and friends of neighbors. The occupants of the first few pews he recognized—Grandma Agatha, Aunt Pat and Uncle Morty, Grandma and Grandpa Clark, Jack, Kyle, and Travis, his cousins, Daniel, Rachel, Maureen, Elise, Tyler, his neighbors, Mrs. Frink and Mr. Robka, Tim’s girlfriend, Sasha, his wrestling coach at U of C, Mr. Craig, and some of their friends from Shermer. Anyone behind row four, on the other hand, was a blind-spot in Andy’s brain. 

Paradoxically, Allison’s section remained depressingly unfilled. He recognized her mother, obviously, garbed in a slinky emerald gown and bored expression, seated in the front row. Andy also identified Ally’s favorite teacher from the School at the Art Institute of Chicago, Mrs. Gould, and a few of her students at the Y. Other than that, there was left a middle-aged man cleaning his glasses, a young mother, and whom seemed to be her fidgety toddler. 

The discrepancy between his side and Ally’s side lingered over the chapel like a tangible thing. 

His folks claimed their seats in the front row, his mom still crying, as Sarah and Tank ambled up the aisle, his seven-year-old cousin clad in a little blue dress scattering rose petals and the bulldog snorting and wagging his tail eagerly. At the head of the aisle, Sarah peered inside her basket, shrugged, and dumped the remaining rose petals on the floor. Everyone chuckled whilst Andy bent down, plucked the rings from the pillow, and pat the dog’s head. 

Trailing Sarah and Tank were Jackie and Brian, one clasping her nosegay and smiling confidently while the other kept tugging at his waistcoat. At the front of the aisle, they parted and stood at position. Claire and Bender followed, the burnout, too, yanking at his tie while the Princess pretended she wasn’t scolding him beneath her breath. When they separated, Bender crept to Andy’s side and muttered, “I’m taking this fuckin’ thing off the second the ceremony’s over. You owe me.” 

Andy scoffed but didn’t reply. 

Greg and Eleanor were next. Ally’s sister was all old Hollywood glam in her red bridesmaid dress, matching cherry lips, and curled shingle. Accompanying her, his brother wore a copy of the suit Andy had chosen and the same smartass smirk he’d been fine-tuning for as long as he could remember. On the Clark side, Greg’s girlfriend pouted as they sailed past her. 

Then, oh, *then*, the music changed to an amusingly freaky version of “Here Comes the Bride”, and there was his bride, first silhouetted in the double doors to the chapel then slowly making her way up the aisle toward him. Allison looked breath-taking in her black and white ball gown—an untraditional choice, but Andy certainly hadn’t expected Ally to come trotting up the red carpet in something Claire-ish. On the side of her low chignon glinted the blue comb; he, too, was proudly donning his zombie socks.

When a veiled Ally caught his eye and smirked, like they were both in on the same ongoing joke, any of Andy’s nervousness disappeared. 

At the head of the aisle, he grasped Ally’s hands, tipped in blood red acrylics. Father Ramirez, looking especially Chevy Chase today for some reason, somberly asked who was giving “this young lady” away. 

Ally snorted at being referred to as a *lady.* 

Mr. Reynolds awkwardly raised a hand. “Um, I do. I mean, her—her mother and I do.” 

On the Reynolds side, Lenore didn’t appear any less bored. 

Father Ramirez morshed his face into what passed for a smile, and Mr. Reynolds sat down beside his wife. Thus began the ceremony, which first included Father Ramirez’s words and, to Andy’s mother’s request, a reading from Corinthians, then the Father stepped back to allow the bride and groom to recite their own vows. 

Andy had worked an obscenely long time on his. Indeed, up until two days ago, he had absolutely nothing written down after scribbling and erasing and scribbling and erasing. It was Bender, oddly enough, who advised him just to say what was on his mind, what he loved about Ally—in the traditional Bender way, as expected, with a roll of the eyes, a smack to his shoulder, and a cigarette. 

Therefore, that was what he did. There was nothing to memorize, he was just speaking from the heart. He talked of meeting her, how she’d captured his attention that day in detention, walking down that hall beside him as they went to fetch Cokes claiming that she was there because she liked vodka. How she’d kind of scared him—this warranted a chuckle from both sides—but gradually felt an impossible pull toward her the more she climbed out of her shell. And how he’d nearly fainted upon glimpsing her post-Claireover. 

He could talk to her about anything, and for hours at a time. His phone bill had never been higher than when they first began dating, as his mom could attest to. She helped him to think for himself, to stop caring so much what his friends thought, to live the way he wanted. It was she who had convinced him to major in Marketing, since he’d always loved watching commercials and coming up with better slogans for stuff. It was she who talked him into crazy things like skydiving and bungee jumping off the Randolph Street Bridge and walking on that totally clear floor inside the Sears Tower, curing him of his fear of heights. It was she who encouraged him when everything—classes, wrestling, life—got hard. It was she who made him brave. 

Following these declarations, Allison sniffed and wiped her eyes beneath the veil. “I don’t know if I can top that, but I’ll try!” 

Ally started off by laughing that there was a reason she’d been dubbed the Basketcase. Many reasons, really. She’d always felt like an outsider, like she didn’t belong and couldn’t belong, even in her own family.

(In Andy’s peripheral vision, he noticed Lenore and Joseph Reynolds’ heads lift up.)

Life until she was seventeen was filled with monotone, she said—lots of blacks and grays. It wasn’t until she met him—met all of them—that color began to fill her world. Suddenly, there were pinks, reds, greens, and especially blues. The blue of Andy’s letterman’s jacket. The many shades of blue that dyed his endless pairs of jeans. The blue of his eyes, like Lake Michigan during a storm. And that was when Allison truly began to understand why people needed color in their lives. 

Humans needed humans. And Allison needed Andrew as much as the sun needed the sky. 

Aside from Eleanor, no one had ever fought for her like Andy had. No one had ever considered her worth it. But he proved to her that she worthwhile—nay, precious. Someone of value, who was worth love. 

She may have still worn lots of black, but now she wasn’t wary of being herself, of letting herself shine. 

Now, it was Andy’s turn to blink away the unshed tears. 

To his right somewhere, Carol’s sobs increased. 

Father Ramirez stepped forward. Andy slid the gold wedding ring on Allison’s finger, and she did the same. 

“With the power vested to me by the State of Illinois, the Catholic church, and God, I now pronounce you man and wife,” the Father recited, his face only betraying his otherwise stoicism at the last second. “Andrew, you may kiss your…Allison.” 

And he kissed his Allison, kissed her like he never had before, and nothing else mattered.  
**  
Bender was not a fan of weddings.

Not that he’d been to many before, but the few he had redefined lame. When Ty’s sister got married when he and his buddy were fifteen, John had gone along hoping to hit up a bridesmaid or two. He ended up picking at a piece of dry chicken, having his cheek pinched by Ty’s grandma, and being forced to do the Hokey Pokey with the rest of the guests. The wedding tape still showed him “turning himself around”, and Ty continued to hold it over his head as blackmail. 

The only other one he’d ever been to was his cousin’s in Tennessee. His ma was originally from Knoxville, where her sister still lived; her daughter got married when he was eleven. John’s old man insisted on driving the whole 560 miles down there because he didn’t want to spring for plane tickets, never mind that, with all the gas, food, hotel, and toll stops, it’d cost about the same to drive as it would’ve to fly. And it would’ve only taken about ninety minutes nonstop. As it was, a pre-teen John had been forced to endure his parents alternately screaming at each other and sitting around in pregnant silence—aside from his ma’s occasional attempts to rouse him with a singalong—for nine hours. Eleven-year-old John Bender ended up squashed in the back of his old man’s rusted ’71 Ford Pinto, squashed between his ma’s suitcase and about a dozen McDonald’s bags with the back of his dad’s seat squashing his knees, listening to the stations change from Chicago rock n’ roll to Knoxville country western. Country western! And the Walkman hadn’t even been released yet! 

The smell of stale French fries still took him right back there.

In any event, once in Knoxville, John and his ma stayed with her parents in their Oak Ridge condo while Jake was forced to check into a nearby Ramada. His grandparents had *not* approved of their daughter marrying Jake, the reason they never visited. John just got a birthday card and check in the mail every year. 

That morning, Laura Bender dressed his awkward pre-teen self in a dorky pale blue tux and one of those bolero ties, picked his dad up at the Ramada, then drove the embarrassing Pinto to the church to watch his cousin say her I Do’s to some idiot kid with feathered hair and the sad beginnings of a porn ‘stache. 

At the reception in the Marriott next door, one of his grandmother’s friends tried to set him up with her granddaughter. Literally, like an arranged marriage. His ma nixed that idea, thank Christ. 

Thus, this was his sole experience with weddings, other than the few he and his buddies had briefly crashed to pick up chicks in their teenage years. Now, John stood by the punchbowl, looking only a mite less dorky in his suit and vest than he had in the pale blue tux of years previous, just about to pop open the Jim Beam he’d swiped from the apartment and spike the stuff. 

Claire materialized out of nowhere, Dani perched on her shoulder, to grab the glass bottle and shove it inside the baby bag. She stared at him balefully. “No liquor, John. I told you, Allison’s dad is an alcoholic. That’s why they got rid of the open bar.” 

Bender sighed. “Fuck, I forgot. I was just trying to liven up this thing. It’s *boring*. Weddings are *boring*.” 

Claire hefted Dani higher on her shoulder. “I think it’s sweet. Look at Ally and Andy!”

John followed her line of sight and couldn’t help the snort. There the Sport and the Basketcase were, gliding in the middle of the old church’s dancehall to Billie Holiday’s “I’ll Be Seeing You”, their foreheads touching and goofy smiles spread across their faces. Overhead, a spotlight shone down on them. Above the dancehall’s red velvet curtain, he could plainly make out Jockstrap arguing with the kid in charge of the lighting. 

John shook his head, dove into Claire’s baby bag, unscrewed the Jim Beam, and downed a good shot and a half. 

Claire rolled her eyes and wandered off. 

He swigged back another gulp. Today, *tonight only*, he was going back on his promise to himself to cut a good percentage of the alcohol out of his diet. For this particular wedding, one between his two friends who were the same damn age as he and Claire were, only rubbed in his face that the idea of popping the question to Cherry scared the shit out of him. And John prided himself on not being afraid of much—hell, even Dani’s various *fluids*, he was growing used to. 

Bender knew that pretty much everyone expected him to put a ring on it, like, now. And a part of him yearned to, a notion that would’ve had his teenage self laughing his ass off and/or calling his twenty-two-year-old counterpart a pussy. At sixteen, he’d never wanted to get married. ‘It’s lame’. ‘It’s legal serfdom.’ ‘Weddings are stupid anyway.’ He could hear the pubescent justifications echoing in his head.

The real story, though, had more to do with his parents. From a young age, John understood that most families did not function like his. At first, he thought Jake and Laura’s behavior inside their marriage was, well, normal. Until he was ten, he truly thought all relationships worked like theirs—a sort of systematic cycle that began with silent rage, then outward anger and violence, rounding the circle to his parents’ “good days”, his only peace as a kid, when his ma and his old man would be plunked in front of the TV, a beer in his dad’s hand and another draped around his mom’s shoulders, laughing as they watched 'All in the Family' or 'The Jeffersons', sometimes even inviting him to sit with them (“Hey, boy! Get over ‘ere, Johnny! Me and your ma are watching George n’ Weezy!”). And he’d always accept because his parents actually getting along was rare. Next, a few days hence, something would set his dad off—it was usually his dad—his ma would pop some pills, curl up in bed, and sob into the wee hours of the morning. And then it’d start all over again. 

It wasn’t until he stayed the weekend over at Ty’s that he realized it was *his* family that wasn’t normal, it was *his* family that stood out from the others, it was *his* family that remained the rotten tooth on the block. Mrs. Carter didn’t run around with bad pancake makeup slapped on her face, trying and failing to conceal the evidence of her husband’s ire. Mrs. Carter didn’t lock herself in her bedroom with the small upstairs television blaring soap operas as she cried and washed her paracetamol down with Smirnoff. Indeed, Mrs. Carter instead fixed him and Ty a snack of cheese and crackers while they watched movies in the den. 

And when Mr. Carter came home from work, he kissed his wife hello and even joined him and his buddy for a round of War. The next evening, John caught Mr. and Mrs. Carter slow-dancing to the Temptations—“My Girl”. 

It was then that he knew unequivocally that his dad was the utmost piece of shit, and that he never ever wanted to be like him. As he grew older, he developed the theory that his father had been a decent dude until he was forced to marry after knocking up his ma. There must’ve been *something* that drew Laura to him initially, right? 

A teenaged John soon began to associate marriage and relationships with his asshole of a dad. Thus, he firmly told himself that the “one-guy-one-girl-thing” would never be for him, lest he end up becoming his father anyway and hurting the poor girl. Chicks were meant to be kept at arms’ length. 

On March 24th, 1984, none other than Claire-fucking-Standish came along, and that proclamation went right out the window. Zoink, whoosh! 

He’d wanted so badly to be good enough for her, to treat her right, to not be a gigantic shithead. But sometimes, his old man got in his head, and when that happened, he inevitably reverted to form. Yelling at her for no reason. Cracking passive-aggressive jokes. Making her cry. 

The second time his actions caused her to burst into tears post-detention, he really started to hate himself. John did everything he could think of to make it up to her when he lashed out, from buying her flowers to taking her to the beach to talking about his *feelings*. And, gradually, the more time he spent around Claire, the less his old man’s impact on his psyche. 

Nevertheless, the phantom hypothesis that marriage and a kid had turned Jake into the chunk of human excrement he now was nagged at John Bender whenever his brain even fleetingly considered the idea of popping the question. And so, he remained terrified. 

He loved Claire, and he loved Dani. Which was why he wanted to keep them as safe from his inner nature as possible. If that meant never marrying her, then so be it. 

John gazed across the room where his princess was seated at their table, bouncing Dani on her knee and gazing wistfully at the deliriously happy-looking couple in the middle of the wooden dancefloor, now rocking to “I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight”. Allison’s huge opal rock glinted in the candlelight, whereas Claire’s ring finger remained bare.

Bender knocked back the Jim Beam again. 

He was going to get himself stupidly drunk tonight, and then threaten to chop up all of Bueller’s crazy ass vests if he didn’t give up his top secret hangover recipe. 

Speaking of Bueller, the weirdo was, at current, hopped up on his table leading the room in his own rendition of “It’s Not Unusual”. John was reminded of that new 'Fresh Prince of Bel-Air' show and the richie cousin’s absurd Tom Jones dance. 

Sloane was gazing up at Ferris with stars in her eyes. They, too, were getting hitched. 

John leaned back against the stone wall beside the refreshments’ table, purposely banging his head against it. Twice. 

At the end of the night, following the guests’ Zombie Shuffle to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”—seriously, it looked fucking choreographed—literally at close to midnight, Sporto laughingly approached him where he sat in his seat holding Dani. As “Thriller” had started, Claire squealed, deposited the baby in his hands, kissed her, then raced out to the dancefloor to join the horde of dancing undead. 

Andy was still coming down from his “Thriller” high. “Dude! You should’ve joined us.”

Bender blinked. “And where would I have left Dani? I suppose I could’ve taken her with me. Even zombies like to accessorize.”

The red in Sporto’s cheeks darkened a bit. Yeah, he was a parent now, and sometimes, his friends forgot that. “You, uh, could’ve left her with someone. It was just four minutes.” 

John surveyed the other occupants of the table while Dani shook the colorful faux keyring in her hands. “I’m not too keen on leaving her with your Grandma Agatha; she bit me earlier. Really getting into the theme, ain’t she?” 

Grandma Agatha, nearly ninety, had taken a swift bite of his finger thinking it was a cocktail weenie. 

Sporto winced. “Uh, yeah, she does that. Whenever she visits, we all put on mittens and stuff.”

'The one time I go out without my gloves!' 

This stupid yuppie suit would’ve looked way more badass paired with his leather biker gloves. Claire had nipped that idea in the bud. 

Damn, he really *was* whipped.

“Besides,” John continued their previous line of conversation. “The Zombie Shuffle isn’t exactly my bag, you know what I mean?”

Andy rolled his eyes. “What *is* your bag? Because you haven’t gotten out of that chair all night.” 

“Not true,” he negated. In his lap, Dani began to suck on the plastic keychain. He reached into the baby bag and replaced it with a recently made bottle of formula. “I was by the punchbowl earlier. And then I went into the bathroom to change Dani’s disgusting diaper. Then the kitchen to make this formula crap. I was a regular nomad this fine evening.” 

The Sport did not look placated. Not that he expected as much. “Did you ask Claire to dance at *all*?”

Bender waved a dismissive hand. “She knows I don’t go for that slow shit. If she wants to mosh out to Iron Maiden, I’m there.” 

Andy pursed his lips. “It’s called sacrifice. I was kinda iffy about a zombie wedding cake, but I okayed it because it’s what Ally wanted.”

John glanced down at his own wedge of the red velvet cake. The piece had been delivered with a zombified Geraldo crafted out of modeling chocolate—‘stache and all. Pretty impressive. “Please. You gave into every single one of Basketcase’s whims for this wedding.” 

Sporto crossed his arms over his chest. “I did not! I put my foot down about hiring the Twinkie Factory to cater.”

John grunted, amused. It was just like Allison to want Twinkies served at her wedding.

He continued. “Whatever. The night’s almost over. Just ask your girlfriend to dance, you stubborn ox.” 

Bender glowered as Andy wandered back toward his bride. Claire was in the middle of the dancefloor being led around by one of the Sport’s brothers to “Time of Your Life”. 

The glower deepened. The kid looked way too stoked to be imitating the end of 'Dirty Dancing'. 

John rose, looked back at bitey Grandma Agatha again, then approached the next table and asked Sloane to watch Dani. After she delightedly agreed, he determinedly marched onto the wooden floor while Claire and mini-Sporto were mid-twirl and told him to amscray. 

The kid grinned, kissed Claire’s hand, and walked away. John glared daggers at his back. 

“John, he’s seventeen,” she said, sounding annoyed. 

“Yes,” he agreed. “And at the peak of his horniness. Surprised he didn’t jizz all over you.”

His princess wrinkled her ski slope nose. “You’re nauseating.” 

John snickered. She’d been calling him that since Day One. 

“Where’s Danielle?!” she demanded, twisting her red head this way and that.

Bender crossed his arms over his chest. “I left her with Sloane. What, did you think that I was just going to *abandon* her at the table?”

Claire’s blush-enhanced pink cheeks reddened. “Of course not! I just…didn’t know where she was.” 

“Well, I came up here to ask you to dance, but you kind of ruined the mood, Cherry.” 

A blink of those eyes he once compared to twin coffee beans. “You hate dancing. I mean, at least not head-banger dancing.” 

John shrugged, but he was smirking a little. “But you don’t. Come on.”

The song the all-girl rock band Allison had hired for the reception was warbling “Time After Time”. Bender had to fight back a groan. He fucking hated this song. Hell, he fucking hated Cyndi Lauper and the weird spelling of her name. But, whatever. Claire dug this auto-tuned bullshit. 

When she wrapped her arms around his neck, smiled into his face, and rested her head on his shoulder, none of that mattered. 

Maybe there was something to slow-dancing after all.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Every wedding I've been to featured the bride's or groom's pet as the ring bearer. Their dog, their cat. There was even a ring bearer guinea pig once. He was incredibly trained. Sadly, there were no ring-bears. 
> 
> Note 2: The debate still lingers today over whether Allison sold out post-Claireover or not. I, personally, don't think she did. I think it was just bonding time between the girls--"Please, why are you being so nice to me?" "Because you're letting me?" I doubt she'd entirely keep the look after detention. Some elements, but Allison it up a bit.
> 
> Note 3: That clear room or whatever in the Sears Tower...it is TERRIFYING. You cannot walk in without thinking you're gonna fall tf through. 
> 
> Note 4: The Sony Walkman was first released in 1979. John would've been born in 1967, so it was still a year before the Walkman came out when he was 11.
> 
> Note 5: History fact: Oak Ridge, TN, was one of the "Secret Cities", the hush-hush operations of the Manhattan Project throughout the country. My friend lives there, and once went on a field trip to the nondescript whitewash factory house where Oppenheimer et. al. discussed and started to build the A-Bomb.
> 
> Note 6: I've wanted to delve into Bender's past a bit. In the movie, we only know that his father is an abusive dick and his mother backs him up, going by his performance. I wanted to delve into WHY, and who he was as a child, and the cycle of abuse he endured in that house.
> 
> Note 7: "Fresh Prince" actually bowed in September of 1990, but pshw, poetic license. I had to make a Carlton joke.


	31. Chapter 30: Step By Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 1990 now, I can use early 90s stuff xD  
This is catching up with Andy and Ally and Brian and Jackie. Our favorite delinquent and princess will be in the next part.

Chapter 30: Step By Step 

Brian hated flying.

Add that to the list of things that made him nervous as heck—babies, weddings, girls (before Jackie, anyway, and he’d been mighty anxious around her for a good few months until he drew the courage to ask her out), shop class, parrots. Yes, parrots. When she was alive, and living with the Johnsons, his grandmother had an African Gray named Pierre. Pierre scared the holy crap out of him as a kid. Waking him up at all hours. Spying on him when he was going to the bathroom or taking a shower. Cursing. The bird cursed! He had particularly liked to tell a young Brian to fuck off. His grandmother thought it was hysterical. 

Today was the second time he was on a plane headed to Baltimore. The spring semester was starting in six weeks, and he needed to fly back to finalize some paperwork for his and Jackie’s apartment. They’d found a cheap place in the Hampden neighborhood, just above a pizza place. The apartment kind of smelled like marinara sauce, but it was a good deal.

But flying was not on his list of favorite things. Also not on his list of favorite things, having to share a cramped row on this cramped airplane with his mother.

“They really need to work on their legroom,” Mercedes Johnson was complaining, legs crossing for the umpteenth time at the knee. The blue tracksuit she was wearing made a swish sound. 

Brian sighed, glanced out the window, winced, then slid the blinder shut. 

Jackie, in the middle seat, wore her strained smile with determination. 

Although Jackie and her father were still on the outs—much to Mr. Takahari’s chagrin; he kept attempting to bribe her with, well, everything money could buy—Brian had decided to forgive his mother for her role in his faux rejection from his dream school. Part of this leniency was due to Mercedes’ blatant guilt trips (“I’m your mother, Brian, and I’m the only one you’ve got! Are you really going to abandon me? I was in labor with you for thirty hours!”), but, mostly, his father had asked him. Shuffling, Ralph had visited his Evanston apartment and pleaded with him to forgive his wife. “She doesn’t realize what she does. Please forgive her, she’s going nuts. And when she goes nuts, I go nuts.”

Thus, against his better judgment, he reached out to her. Somehow, Mercedes twisted his show of clemency into an invitation to his next trip to Baltimore. 

Brian didn’t have the heart to tell her to get gone. It would just lead to another argument. 

So, there the three were, about to land at the Baltimore/Washington International Airport, Brian stifling the urge to puke every time the plane hit a slight patch of turbulence, Jackie pretending that being around Mercedes for three days wasn’t going to be a nightmare, and Mercedes herself still trying to dissuade Brian from moving here by disparaging everything Baltimore had to offer. 

The plane abruptly dipped as it descended, and Brian reached for his oft-used airsick bag. 

Jackie squeezed his arm. “It’s fine. We’re almost there.” 

Beside her, Mercedes scoffed. “’Bout time. We’ve been in the air forever. Are pilots from Baltimore just lazy?”

Brian leaned forward to bang his head against the seat in front of him. 

Jackie’s phony smile grew a bit more while her orange-painted nails dug into the armrest. 

Once they landed, waited to depart the plane (“Why is this taking so long?” Mercedes griped three times in that half hour), and emerged inside the airport, Brian could breathe again now that his feet were once more on solid ground. Jackie led them through the floor to find their gate’s carousel. 

“Well,” Brian’s mother started as she glanced about herself. “It’s kinda stuffy in here. You say the baggage claim area is on the next floor up? What’s the point in that?” 

He heard Jackie inhaling deeply beside him. “There’s not enough room on this level, Mrs. Johnson…” 

Mercedes pooh-poohed that. “I’m just saying is all. Should be more accessible.” 

Upstairs, they waited to retrieve their luggage, all of which they spotted immediately thanks to Mercedes’ knockoff Louis Vuitton, pushed out of the airport, and hailed a cab. Jackie told the cabbie to take them to Hampden. 

At the apartment block, Mercedes was aghast that they had to tread through a pizza place. In the stairwell, she mumbled about everything smelling like pepperoni, and once upstairs in the partially furnished studio, she crossed her arms. “There’s no room in here! What are you two gonna do, get one of those *folding beds*?”

She said 'folding beds' like she was suggesting they were going to sleep on a hay bale. 

“N—no, Mom,” Brian assured her, crossing to the northernmost wall. “We’re, um, going to get one of those foldout couches and put it here.” 

If anything, Mercedes looked more scandalized. “A foldout couch?! Brian, those things are bad for your back.” 

Behind them both, Jackie was unscrewing one of those little bottles of alcohol she’d swiped from the flight and knocking back the contents. 

“I’ll—I’ll be fine, M—Mom.” Brian winced. His stutter was always more pronounced around his mother. 'Gee, wonder why.' “We’ll be fine. Um, this place is close to some of the buildings on our schedules this semester, so…” 

Mercedes sighed. “I still don’t like it. Your place in Evanston is so roomy. Why would you want to move here?” 

“So I can go…go to Johns Hopkins.” 

His mother flapped that statement away as if it were a fly. “Oh, Hopkins-Schmopkins. Feinberg is a perfectly fine school…” 

And on and on it went for the next hour before he and Jackie had to meet with the realtor and the super to sign the paperwork. 

“What do you mean, he has to give the first and last month’s pay?” Mercedes demanded after looking over the lease contract with a fine-tooth comb. She raised her mop of curly hair, encircled with a black sweatband, and glared at the portly middle-aged super.

Said super, Mr. Avenatti, glared at Brian’s mother beneath his thick, bushy gray eyebrows. “Who are you again, lady?”

Mercedes glowered. “I’m his mother!” She waved her manicured hand beside her in a vague gesture toward Brian, who was slumping down in his seat across from Mr. Avenatti. 

Jackie attempted to inject a form of logic. “Mrs. Johnson, this is generally how lease agreements work…” 

“But how do you even know when your last month will be?! This doesn’t make any sense.” Mrs. Johnson took it upon herself to rip up the contract—or tried to. It was laminated. 

Mr. Avenatti threw up his large hands. “I don’t need this! Take it or don’t, kids. I gotta lease out the apartment upstairs. Business has been slow lately after that *Domino’s* moved in down the street.” The super hissed 'Domino’s' like he was spitting poison at the corporation itself. 

Jackie regarded Brian, silently urging him with her eyes to do something. They were about to lose their housing due to Mercedes’ helicopter parenting. Brian inhaled deeply. Now, he understood, was the time to step up. To show his girlfriend that he could wear the pants. Imbuing himself with all the lingering animosity he felt toward his mother for her stunt with Mr. Takahari, he leaned across Jackie and plucked the laminated contract out of Mercedes’ hands. 

“Mom, this is how leases are done,” Brian said, exasperated. He was surprised at how clear his retort was. “You pay for the first month, you pay for the last. Whenever you move out.”

Mercedes tsked. “I still say that makes no sense. You didn’t have to do that in Evanston!”

Brian rolled his eyes. “Yes, I did, Mom. I had to pay first and last month to the landlord.” 

“No, you didn’t!” 

“Yes, I did!” 

“I don’t remember that,” she insisted, staring at her slightly chipped manicure. “Doesn’t Hopkins-Schmopkins have dorms?”

“We don’t want to live in dorms, Mrs. Johnson,” Jackie butted in, looking as if she was this close to snapping. “We’re twenty-two. And most graduate students live off-campus.” 

To this, Mercedes had no response. Brian breathed a sigh of relief and bent forward to scribble his name on the highlighted line. Jackie did the same, with much nicer handwriting. 

'At least I write like a doctor.'

Later, the three were standing in the middle of the apartment. Mercedes had her hands perched on her hips. “Well. Where are we gonna stay? We obviously can’t sleep here; there’s barely any furniture. Unless we sleep on the floor like dogs.”

Jackie ran a hand through her hair. Usually, she put it up in a ponytail or messy bun, but in her frustration, she had torn the yellow scrunchie out of the black strands and now wore the silky mass flowing over her shoulders. Brian decided he rather liked her hair down and framing her face. “We have reservations at a Comfort Inn.”

Mercedes scoffed. “Comfort-schmomfort. That place is a deathtrap. You should’a let me make the reservations.”

Brian sighed. This was going to be a long three days.  
***  
Brian wasn’t the only one of their motley little group taking a wee break from Chicago. 

Months earlier, while planning the wedding, Allison and Andy had decided to forgo the honeymoon until they had the funds to afford it—independently, anyway. Carol had offered to pay for the honeymoon, but Andy refused to take her money, a decision Ally supported, seeing as she’d already paid for a good chunk of the wedding itself. More to the point, the Clarks weren’t exactly rolling in it; Allison’s new mother-in-law (!!!) still had minor sons living with her to support. And Andy was wary about accepting money from Tim. He already felt like he owed the man for paying for half the engagement party and his own chunk of change for the wedding. Her new husband (!!!) did not want to be in Tim Clark’s debt in any capacity. He’d been feeling softer toward his father lately, but Tim’s outward display of contrition still did not make up for all those years of physical and mental abuse. 

Hence, the recently christened Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Clark (!!!) decided to open a shared expense account, in which they’d slowly deposit the money needed to take their dream vacation—an Alaskan cruise. They agreed that they’d always wanted to see the Last Frontier (no, not space, although Ally would die to explore the Alpha Quadrant…and hopefully run into some friendly Vulcans). Andy had wanted to climb Mount Huntington in the Alaska Range ever since he was a child, when he did a report about it in the third grade. As for Allison, she had her own childhood dream, spawned after watching a documentary on Nome, a small town in the Arctic almost on top of the world. The documentary spotlighted the Serum Race, the 600 plus mile drive from Nome to Nenana undertaken by skilled mushers of the area and their sled dogs in order to retrieve the antitoxin needed to relieve Nome’s diphtheria epidemic in February of 1925—almost sixty-five years ago exactly. The plan was to purchase one of those all-inclusive deals; Princess Cruises was offering a ten-day tour from San Francisco with airfare included. Ideally, they’d book the cruise, take it to its last port of call in Skagway, then book one of those Skyhawks to Nome, explore the town for a few days, fly back down south to Denali National Park where Andy could fulfill his wish, then fly home. Unfortunately, the total cost added up to some 5 grand, and that required *a lot* of saving. 

Together, they opened their Awesome Alaskan Dream Honeymoon account. They were prepared to wait however long it took to save the money needed. 

But then, something…rather unexpected occurred. 

It started at the wedding, the reception. Lenore and Joseph approached the newly minted married couple at their table, where they both sat in high-backed wicker chairs made famous by Carolyn Jones in The Addams Family. Both of her parentals looked a little…uncertain. Hesitant. Very unlike the Reynolds, whose blue bloodline and independent wealth had given them a false sense of superiority in all things. 

Allison regarded them warily. Over the cacophonous music, Lenore said—stuttered, really, another oddity—that she and Joseph had something to talk to her about. Them both about. 

Ally narrowed her eyes. “…what?” 

Lenore cleared her throat. “Well, Allison, your father and I…that is to say, we…we want—“ 

But then the all-girl band cued up “Thriller”, and Allison didn’t hear anything else as she dragged Andy onto the dancefloor. 

Two days post-wedding, after the ah-mazing wedding night spent at a resort hotel in the city, Lenore and Joseph approached them again just as they were checking out. 

Allison’s mother had her hands clasped in front of her, a stance she wasn’t used to glimpsing in the chilly, confident woman. She cleared her throat and began. Her tone this time was much clearer and assertive, as if she had been practicing these words all weekend. “Allison, your father and I heard your vows, and one particular point stood out to us. About how you always felt like an outsider among your family.” 

'Great. Here it comes'. Allison mentally braced herself for a lengthy lecture while Andy squeezed her hand in support. 

Ally watched suspiciously as Lenore and Joseph exchanged glances. It was her father who stepped forward, nervously raking a hand through his barely thinning blond hair. “We never knew you felt that way, and so, we would like to try to make it up to you. If we can.”

She blinked. How could they not know? They had all but abandoned her to her au pair when she was six because she had no desire to follow in Eleanor’s footsteps. 

“So,” Lenore continued, reaching into her beige Balenciaga purse. “We want to pay for your honeymoon. I believe this should cover it.”

Her mother proceeded to hand over a check for ten grand. *Ten grand*. 

Over her shoulder, Andy scanned the amount, and his eyes broadened to the size of UFOs. 

Allison was struck dumb. This was the last thing she would have expected from her parents, the two people who were supposed to cherish their children unconditionally but instead had contributed dearly to Allison’s mental state growing up by pushing her to the side, snapping at her for no reason, or simply ignoring her presence completely. 

Blinking down at the check, Allison’s first instinct was to tear it up. The money, as incredible as it was to feel the weight of all those zeroes betwixt her fingers, did not make up for years and years of neglect. In lieu, not wanting to start a scene in the middle of this public lobby, she tried to give it back to her mother. 

“Lenore,” she said, handing back the check. “You know I can’t accept this.”

“Why not?” her mother demanded. Her tone was nonchalant, pairing with the shrug of her thin shoulders beneath the chenille sweater she wore. “We can certainly afford it. Take the money. Go wherever you like. It’s on us.”

“We can *really* use this, Al,” Andy reminded her beneath his breath. “We can use the other account to save up for a house.”

Andy was in the process of moving into the Jefferson Park apartment with Allison fulltime and trying to sell his own place. Still, they would need a real house at some point. There was only so much room in the apartment. 

Ally hesitated, biting the corner of her lower lip. 

“We’re not trying to buy you, Allison,” Joseph added. When she glanced up at him, he was actually smiling, albeit ruefully. “This is a simple wedding gift. Personally, I think it is much more preferable to a blender.”

She couldn’t help breathing a laugh at that. Ten grand was infinitely better than a blender.

“Please,” he continued, hesitantly raising a hand to cup her shoulder. “Take it. Go where you want. You both, er, deserve it.”

'Why not?' Allison considered after a minute. They *did* deserve it. Taking the money would free them up to save for a more permanent place to live. Besides, she’d never asked a thing from her parents, not when she was a kid and still living with them and definitely not once she left. She knew that this offering was likely an opportunity for Lenore and Joseph to ease their consciences, she wasn’t foolish, but this wasn’t just for her—it was for Andy, too. He’d been so wonderful, allowing her to do whatever she wished for this wedding, obtaining Stubbie’s services and acquiring that awesome cathedral. And he was working so hard; he deserved a break. 

Even if that “break” was scaling a mountain in southern Alaska. 

This was how they found themselves two weeks later at the Port of San Francisco after booking last minute—extremely last minute. There’d been exactly nine vacancies on the whole ship, and this close to embarkation time, the tickets cost double. A whopping three grand. But, since they had ten to use as they wished, Andy had gone all out and booked for them a honeymoon suite on the veranda. It boasted a real master bedroom, separate living space, a full bathroom and tub, two TVs, a Nintendo hookup, and a private deck with its own mini Jacuzzi. 

Allison about did cartwheels once the tickets came in via fax.

Now, here they were, lined up outside the port, the huge white and blue cruise ship looming behind them and clogging the blue sky with congestive gray smoke. It was unseasonably warm for San Francisco in February, almost Chicago in June weather. Overheated, Ally shrugged off the Toad sweatshirt she’d been wearing, clad now in ripped leggings and a white tank top. Gathering her hair, she threw the mass up in a bun at the top of her head. 

“Fuck, it’s hot out here,” she panted, sneering at the old ladies behind them who gasped at her language. 

Andy offered the two biddies a shaky smile. He, too, had shed his Nike hoodie for the Blackhawks t-shirt he wore underneath. “Hopefully, they’ll take us in soon.”

Allison rolled her eyes beneath the straggly bangs escaping her haphazard bun. “You said that a half hour ago. And ninety minutes before that.” 

Helpless, Andy shrugged. Ally sighed and returned to her Gameboy. She was this close to beating her high score in Kirby. 

Forty minutes later, they were still loitering in the same spot. Ally huffed, wiped some perspiration from her forehead, and stamped her Converse-clad foot. “God! What’s taking so long?!”

Her new husband (squee!) winced. “I don’t know, Al, but I’m sweating like crazy in these jeans.” 

She wasn’t fairing much better in her leggings. The black material was like a magnet for the sun. “But we have a suite on the veranda deck! Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, get preferential treatment or something?”

Andy blinked at her, an amused dimple in his cheek. 

Ally barked a laugh. “Wow. I sound like Claire.” 

“Could you imagine the hell Bender’d be going through in our shoes right now?”

'He’d be ripping his hair out, and fighting with the urge to have Claire checked as baggage.' She giggled, picturing it. 

Finally, finally, the line began moving again. Allison shouldered her duffle for the nth time, and Andy reached for his small carryon suitcase. Once inside the port authority, they were instantly blasted with a welcome wave of cool air. They had to sort through check-in and security clearance, which lasted another hour, then the final wait to embark. On the gangway, a Princess Cruises employee directed them to stand in front of a cardboard cutout of a glacier and snapped their slightly awkward photo.

At the entrance to the veranda deck, they regarded each other. “First attempt to score extra ducats from us,” Andy figured with a small shake of his head.

“Capitalism at work!”

On the smallish but luxurious veranda deck, they passed through an additional inspection—Allison snarled at the guy with the handheld metal detector who stared too long at her tits—and amenities like the spa, the Turkish baths, a few portside cafés, a casino, an indoor ice rink, and a gym, to reach their appointed suite. Outside their door, their checked luggage was already waiting for them. 

Andy inserted the laminated keycard and opened the door with a flourish. “Ah! Now this is what we paid for.” A pause. “Well. What your parents paid for.”

Allison dropped her overstuffed duffel bag onto the lush gray carpet with a soft thwap and grinned. Directly to her left was the full-size bathroom, with its adorable marbleized mosaic of a beach scene in the floor tile, twin porcelain sinks, shower with waterfall faucet and matching to-scale blue tub, and “his” and “hers” towels hanging from the racks. The freebies featured around the sink were everything they could possibly need—miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner, bars of soap, deodorant, a bag of disposable razors and a canister of shaving cream, seasickness pills (her husband may need those), hairbands, two small toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste, and a box of granola bars. 

The living space was pimped out with a thirty-two inch Panasonic, an NES hookup, a stereo sitting flat on a weird kidney-shaped coffee table, a red, white, and blue couch and matching lounge chairs, a hook rug, a tiny refrigerator and microwave, a safe for their precious belongings, and mucho closet space. Their bedroom contained a queen-size bed, yet more closet space, a smaller Panasonic, an armoire, and a desk. Outside, on the private deck, the warm water of the square of Jacuzzi bubbled. Next to it stood a table, on which lay a bottle of Chianti and a plate of chocolate covered strawberries. 

Ally clapped her hands and squealed. “Oh, my God! This is great!” 

Andy smiled. “Hope you packed pretty much everything, from shorts to parkas. It’s hot now, but it won’t be long before it’s freezing.”

Allison was ready. She hated the heat. She couldn’t wait to sail closer to the Arctic. 

Andy glanced down at his watch. “We won’t leave yet for a few hours. Let’s make the most of this weather and grab a Bahama Mama on the lido deck.”

Like weenies, she never said no to a crazy cocktail, either.  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Okay, coming up to the point where these updates and my writing is overlapping. So the updates from now on may be longer but I'm still writing almost every day.
> 
> Note 2: Mercedes is a Karen. 
> 
> Note 3: History fact: the Nome-Nenana Expedition enraptured the nation in 1925. It was literally life or death. Teams of sled dogs led experienced mushers nearly 500 miles and back. It's partly depicted in the Amblin animated movie, "Balto". Tho if you have Disney+ check out "Togo" starring Willem DeFoe as Leonhard Seppala, one of the mushers. It's about how determined and awesome his dog, Togo, was and how he led the race for a very large chunk of the expedition. Balto, too, and his musher, Gunnar. Balto finished the race at 238 miles in the dead of an Alaskan winter, caught in a storm.
> 
> Note 4: If you've ever been on a cruise, you know how blah the waiting period is. You gotta stand outside in the hot af sun (all of mine went out of MIAMI in JULY) until you're finally let in to the Port Authority like you're being granted permission from royalty. It. Is. A. Pain. Furthermore, they try to get you to spend extra ducats as soon as your vacation starts. Not even when you board. Before you board, where they will try to get you to buy a photo. Drinks cost extra, too. I love cruising. I don't love the extras of cruising.


	32. Chapter 31: Mama, I'm Comin' Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kay, the first part of this chapter is the second scene I envisioned in my head that inspired this fic

Chapter 31: Mama, I'm Comin' Home 

Dani was crying again.

John groaned, perched on the edge of the bed, and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t gotten much sleep tonight at all. Last night at asshole o’clock, he’d had to race from the office to O’Hare to pick up the Brainiacs and Mommy Brainiac. Riding the thirty or so minutes it took to drive from the airport to Evanston with Mercedes Johnson in the back, chattering in his ear about “preferred musical selections” (anything by Connie Francis; Bender, in his exhaustion, had contemplated simply crashing the Audi into a wall by Connie’s third track) and singing along off-key while alternately complaining about Baltimore as a whole. ‘It’s too dirty.’ ‘That neighborhood you’re gonna live in is full of liberal hipsters.’ ‘There’s no Portillo’s Hotdogs in Baltimore!’ He’d wanted to throw her out the window long before they reached Evanston. Judging by the looks on the Dorks’ faces in the rearview mirror, so did they. 

When he ultimately got back to the apartment, it was after midnight. Claire had volunteered to take care of Dani tonight, but the kid’s wailing was keeping him up anyway. Mumbling that he’d take this one, he padded across the hall and into the nursery. Dani’s diaper was wet. And her pajama bottoms were wet. And the sheets were wet. 

John methodically went through the motions of changing the kid’s Roger Rabbit diaper—sliding, wiping, powdering, sliding, wiping, powdering—put Dani in a new pair of pajamas, and scooped fresh sheets out of the closet in lieu of the soiled ones. The old, wet sheets were shoved to the bottom of Dani’s Minnie Mouse hamper. 

Back in the master bedroom, he all but collapsed on the mattress. Claire turned over and squeezed his arm, blinking her eyes tiredly. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Just had to change her pajamas.”

“Why?”

“She peed all over them.”

Claire snorted and turned over to go back to sleep. 

It was four AM, and John felt his eyelids grow heavier and heavier until blessed blackness. 

For about two and a half hours.

BING-BONG. 

Bender’s eyes popped open. The room was lighter but still shrouded in the shadows of the oncoming dawn. It was that time of the morning when the sky was that overcast cobalt hue, and, even from way up here, he could smell the dew of the morning. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, he groaned. 6:15. Too early to exist, but too late to go back to sleep if he wanted to be up on time for Dani’s morning feeding. 

“What…what the fuck?” he murmured blearily, struggling to sit up. “Is that the phone?”

To his left, the pile of sheets and coverlets stirred beside him. Claire moaned and clutched her forehead. “I think it’s the doorbell. Who the hell would be visiting us this early on a Saturday?”

“Dick,” John answered automatically, swinging his legs off the side of the mattress. “It’s Dick, letting us know that we’re late for detention.” 

Claire chuckled tiredly into her pillow. 

“Probably the Dork,” he continued as he rose, shoving his feet into the red “Hey brotherrrrrrrr” Hulk Hogan slippers. “He has no concept of time.” 

That was true, anyway. It was why Big Bri had booked a flight from Baltimore that landed at asshole-o-fucking-clock. 

Slightly shivering in his white t-shirt and black boxers, John padded down the hall into the living room, muttering under his breath about wringing Brainiac’s neck for dropping by so damn early. Halfway to the door, the bell rang again, and John mumbled that he was coming, damnit. 

The bell rang once more. “All right. Jesus!” 

Once at the door, Bender undid the deadbolt, twisted the first lock, then pushed the second—richie building or not, this was still fucking Chicago—and pulled open the door with a creak, eyes half closed. “Dork. Do you have any idea what time it is—Ma?!” 

On the other side of the apartment’s entrance, looking wildly uncomfortable and out of place in that decadently luxurious corridor and framed by the soft lighting of said decadently luxurious corridor’s dimmed sconces stood Laura Bender. John’s mother. Whom he hadn’t spoken to in a few months and whom he hadn’t *seen* in over a year. 

Bashfully, the woman smiled, albeit flickeringly. Tentatively. Nervously. “Hi, Johnny,” she replied in her soft, accented voice. 

John blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t entirely trust his eyes this early in the morning. But nope, his ma was still there, lingering before the threshold with her jacket folded over her skinny arms. “What are you doin’ here?” 

He could discern Laura’s swallow. “Can I come in?”

Bewildered, John wordlessly opened the door wider and stepped aside to let his mother pass. The scent of…he didn’t know what, something flowery…engulfed him as she sailed by. This was definitely not how he recollected her particular essence. In his memories, his ma stunk a combination of vodka, Lysol, and a hint of body odor. 

In fact, Laura appeared, well, different than his image of her filed away in his mind’s archives. For one thing, she wasn’t a stooped-over mess, like she was forever trying to shrink into herself. A hedgehog in human form. For another, the deep bags beneath her eyes were less pronounced, nor were there any squiggly red lines shooting through the whites of her eyes. She was still thin, skinny, really, but not that sickly gaunt she’d been the last time he saw her. Her skin was even healthily tanned, like she’d actually been outdoors, and her dark blonde hair was full and lush instead of dirty and lank. Laura looked *clean*. A rarity indeed. 

The last time he’d even glimpsed his mother in such a state had been during the last sober period he’d stuck around for—the one that came to an abrupt halt right before that fateful detention. 

John cleared his mind. Remembering how quickly his ma had gone from clean and sober to nearly dead on her feet still upset and angered him. All these years later. 

“Wow,” his ma breathed, gazing around the living room. “This is a beautiful apartment!” 

Damn, she was even dressed unlike herself. Gone were the holey sweatpants and oversized t-shirts. Today, she wore a pair of jeans, a white scarf knotted around her neck, and a pink sweater. It’d been so long since John had seen his mother in a real color.

“Yeah,” Bender replied. Not knowing what to do with his hands, one went to rub the back of his neck while the other shook at his side. “Wh—what are you doing here? How did you even get up here?”

Laura shrugged her thin shoulders. He’d never realized how small the woman was, either. “Well. There was no one at the doors or in the lobby, so I just sort of…went on up.”

John scowled. “I’m gonna fucking kill Olivier.” Then, instantly suspicious, he narrowed his eyes. “How’d you get here to begin with? I thought your license was suspended.” 

He observed Laura shrink a bit into herself. A little over a year ago, his ma had gotten into an accident driving her clunker of a Toyota. High on opiates, she was going way too fast and crashed the car into a stop sign, completely totaling both. The jaws of life were required to get her out of the demolished mess the Toyota became. John had received a call from his old man at the office—how Jake even got the number, he still had no idea—and he drove to the hospital with Ty. Jake was there alternately lambasting his broken mother and sobbing. John spent the rest of the workday there, holding his ma’s hand, stuffing his face with crappy hospital food, and watching bad daytime TV. Then, when it was evident that she’d be all right, he went home. 

He’d never told Claire about that day, and asked Ty to keep it between themselves. Bender wanted to keep his girlfriend out of his family drama. His relationship with his parents was not something he enjoyed talking about. To this day, he was shocked that he’d been so open with all of them in detention. Likely because he’d been in a terrible mood already, what with Laura falling off the wagon. Again. 

In any event, at the trial—which he didn’t personally attend—Laura had her license suspended for three years and was sent off to state-sponsored rehab. Maybe it’d worked? She certainly looked better. 

Still, John did not want to get his hopes up. He’d been there way too many times with his mother, only to end up disappointed and angry. 

“I took a cab,” Laura said now, obviously sheepish. “I still had your address written down in my little black book.” 

Years ago, when he first moved in with Claire, John had given his ma the address of the building, as well as the apartment number. He was hesitant about it, very hesitant—he’d always hoped to keep his family and Claire as separate as possible—but his conscience kept eating at him until he called her. If she ever needed a place to crash, etcetera. 

Old habits die hard. Bender had spent many years at home protecting his ma from his father’s rage—or at least trying to. When Jake was pissed at Laura for whatever reason, John was the one who took her beatings. When Jake was hollering at her, he darted between them before the confrontation could get violent. When Jake was having a shitty(er) day, instead of taking it out on his wife, John offered to be the punching bag. 

He’d ached to leave that hell house for as long as he could remember, but he knew that when he went, he’d be leaving his ma behind to take up the mantle. Not living there, he couldn’t protect her anymore. It was she who urged him to go, to get away from Jake, from Shermer altogether. And never look back.

So he had. The lingering guilt implored him to at least give Laura his address and phone number. 

John nodded slowly. His fingers were still jittery, so he crossed his arms over his chest. “So, then…why are you here?”

His mother stepped forward, fiddling with her own fingers. “Well, Johnny, I—“ 

“John?”

Bender whipped his head over his shoulder. Claire was standing in the doorway of their bedroom, tiredly blinking away the sleep from her eyes. 

“Yeah,” he called back; his voice sounded perplexed and unsure to his own ears. 

“Who’s at the door?” she continued with an accompanying yawn.

John hesitated for a flash, glancing askance at his mother. She was here; he guessed there was no real point trying to hide it from Claire. “…my mom.” 

Claire’s surprised beat of silence melted into an equally stunned “Oh.” Then, he watched her disappear back into the room for a second, and when she returned, she was wearing her lacy pink robe—'I’m sorry, “housecoat”'—over her white chemise. The look on her face as she walked into the light of the living room was somewhat…bashful.   
Tentative. It was an expression he wasn’t used to seeing on her, but she’d never met his ma, or any of his family. He’d kept it that way on purpose. 

Briefly, fleetingly, Laura smiled up at him, then walked the few feet to his uncertain girlfriend. He scrutinized warily whilst his ma stepped toward her and grasped Claire’s hands in her own. “You must be Claire.” 

The Princess ducked her red head, mussed from sleep. Claire gazed down at Laura—she was a good five inches taller than his mother—and smiled timidly. John raised his eyebrows. Claire was anything but *timid*. 

“Yeah,” she breathed, twisting to the side a bit. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Bender.”

John’s mother laughed. She *laughed*. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard his ma laugh. Maybe at the TV watching a 'Jeffersons' rerun. “Oh, none of that! It’s Laura.” 

“Okay,” she replied; an arm rose to absently smooth down her wayward hair. “Laura.” 

“Well,” his ma said, smiling wider. “You’re just lovely!”

Claire pushed her hair behind her ears and ducked her head—again, timidly. “Thank you.”

“I—I’ve seen pictures of you, of course,” Laura continued. Yeah, John had included a few photos of them with the checks he sent back home whenever he had extra crash lying around. He wasn’t paying for rent or utilities, and he felt like an asshole with money burning a hole in his pocket with the knowledge that Jake was constantly in and out of work and thus not always able to support his mother. So…he sent checks home sometimes. He just hoped his old man wasn’t just using them for beer. “But you’re even prettier in person.”

Claire’s bashful beam broadened. “Thank you.”

John cleared his throat. “Ma. You were about to say why you’re here.” Then, in a lower voice—“Is…Dad here, too?”

Over his shoulder, he watched Claire pale before his eyes. Instantly, her gaze darted to the half ajar door of Dani’s nursery, as though prepared to race in there at a moment’s notice. 

Couldn’t blame her. 

“No, no!” Laura assured him—both of them. In front of him again, his ma gazed up at his face, continuing to play with her fingers. “He, um, didn’t know I was comin’. I—I…Well, Johnny, I came here…to see *you*.” A pause. “And…maybe…to meet my grandchild?” 

Bender blinked, thinned his lips, then stared his ma up and down. Sighing, he glanced wordlessly at Claire. 

Her answering smile was brief. “I’ll get her. It’s almost time for her feeding, anyway.” 

When his princess turned around and disappeared down the hall, John returned his regard to his mother. “How…how did you even know?”

Once again, Laura shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Oh, Shermer’s a small town. Word gets around.” 

He should’ve considered that. Richard Standish’s daughter having a baby—in town, no less—was bound to be big news all over Chicago. 

His ma’s half-smile, one identical to his, was rueful. “I was kinda hopin’ to hear that you were a daddy now from you, though.” 

Bender awkwardly cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh. I was…gonna call…” 

Honestly, he was. Going to call. Let her know that she was a grandma now. But it kept escaping him, in his new dad-addled brain. Between Dani and work and the complete lack of sleep both he and Claire had been getting lately, John was forgetting all sorts of shit. Just two days ago, he’d almost taken a bus home when he’d driven the Trans-Am to work.

Claire returned a few moments later with Dani in her arms, the baby now dressed in a purple blouse with this weird ruffly skirt over it and a pair of pink cake-patterned pants. Encircling her head lay one of those velvet headbands Claire loved; she had a hundred of them. John would’ve made a comment about her having seen fit to dress the kid but not herself, but he was too distracted watching Dani pull on the ends of Claire’s hair. He couldn’t believe how big she was getting already.

Not that she hadn’t been pretty damn big to start with. Bender’s mouth quirked. 

Laura gasped when Claire sailed into the living room, smiling widely down at their kid, who looked a bit confused at being dressed this early in the morning. His ma all but squealed—*squealed*, like a teenybopper spotting Bon Jovi in the mall shopping for more hair products—and jogged to meet her. Her beam, too, was open and infectious. 

“Oh, my!” she cried while Dani flapped the arm that wasn’t preoccupied with Claire’s hair. “Isn’t she just darling!” 

In response, Dani grinned, as though knowing instinctively that this strange lady was complimenting her. She was almost preening. That was all Claire. 

Claire’s smile broadened, but faltered when Dani tugged too hard. Subtly, she tried to disengage the infant, and ended up nearly pulling piece of hair out. 

His ma continued in that same high-pitched voice. “Oh! Wh—what’s her name?”

“Danielle.” 

Laura’s smile became softer. “She’s beautiful.” Bending over, she addressed the kid herself. “Hi, Danielle! I’m your Nana!” A pause, then she regarded Claire again. “Uh, unless your mama’s already claimed that title.” 

John’s breath of laughter was totally involuntary. 

Claire’s grin strained. “I think my mom would prefer Danielle to call her Nora.” 

“Aw, no one wants to admit they’re growing older.”

“Especially my mother,” the Princess mumbled, and Bender smirked.

Laura cleared her throat, fidgeted, and wrapped a strand of hair behind her ear. “Um. Do you think I can...?” 

Claire met his eye. John pursed his lips, then walked the few steps to where his mother stood. Once more looking her up and down, eyes narrowed, he inspected her with a fine-tooth comb. If there was *any* hint that she was still on the drugs, or the alcohol, she was not getting anywhere within touching distance of his kid. 

“I, um, I’ve been sober for eight months,” his ma continued softly, her gaze fluctuating between his own and the floor. She reached into the collar of her sweater and pulled out a piece of lanyard, upon which hung her eight months sober chip. “See? Just got this three days ago.”

John studied it, then—a mite reluctantly—nodded once. “All right, go ahead.” 

Claire passed the baby to his mother, whom he was still watching warily. The chip proved that she was off the pills, but he was nervous that Laura would drop Dani or something. His ma was so *small* and her arms were so *thin*. He couldn’t imagine she had the strength to carry a pocketbook, let alone a near three-month-old. And he didn’t mean one of Claire’s overstuffed pocketbooks, either. He thought she kept barbells in those things. 

But Laura hefted the kid easily, beaming into her less Winston Churchill-y face. Dani tugged on his ma’s hair whilst mumbling baby talk. To him, it sounded like “Where’s the beef?” 

“She’s adorable!” Laura trilled. “Oh, Johnny, she looks just like you!”

Claire snickered. “I know she does.” 

John’s mother bounced Dani in her hold and caught his eyes with her own. “I remember when you were this small. Big, wide open eyes, so curious.”

“Really?” Claire was staring between both Benders. John’s expression was flat. Very rarely did he talk about his past or his childhood, for obvious reasons. So Claire didn’t exactly have much of a window into his life growing up. 

Until now, that was. Great. Fucking perfect. 

Laura nodded. “Mhmm. And then when he got older and could talk, he dang near pointed out everything to me. ‘Yook, Mama, yook!’” 

John’s visage went even more deadpan. Claire was laughing beside him, evidently enjoying his humiliation very much. “Yook!” she repeated, practically jumping in place with glee. 

He glowered at her. “Like you don’t have any embarrassing baby stories.”

Queenie shrugged the thin shoulders barely covered by her robe. “If I do, you’ll have to hunt down my old nannies if you want to hear them.” 

If anything, that made him even more pissed off. Claire cackled, delighted. 

“Is she a good baby?” Laura asked as Dani looked around for something else in the vicinity to pull. “Does she sleep through the night?”

“Not exactly,” Claire said just as Bender barked a “Ha!”

Laura grinned like she’d been expecting that answer. “Ah, like daughter, like father.” 

Sly, his girlfriend’s stare slid back to his own while he muttered under his breath. “Oh?”

John’s mother started walking a few paces back and forth with the kid in her arms. “Yep! Woke us up all the time. ‘Feed me.’ ‘Hold me.’ ‘Pay attention to me.’” 

The flat of Bender’s hand smacked against his forehead while Claire erupted in another fit of giggles. Bent over, she was slapping her thigh, amusement written on every feature. John rolled his eyes. Clearly, she was enjoying this. 

In her place, he admitted that he’d likely be doing the same thing, maybe with some additional pointing and a Nelson Muntz-ready “Ha-ha!” 

“Ma,” he muttered, pushing back his hair. “You’re ruining my rep.” 

He was kidding. Sort of. 

Claire was gleeful. John was not amused.

Out of nowhere, still propped up in his ma’s arms, Dani started to fuss. John was getting used to her sudden mood-swings. Also something she’d inherited from Claire. 

Laura looked stricken, like someone had sucker punched her in the stomach. “Lord, what’d I do?”

Claire reached forward and pulled Dani from her hold. “Oh, nothing. She’s just hungry.” Crossing to the nearest overstuffed chair, she asked John to heat up a bottle. 

Wordlessly moving into the kitchen, he implemented the same methodical tasks he’d regularly been doing since they brought Dani home—open fridge, grab bottle, heat up bottle in pot, test milk on back of hand, give to baby if satisfied. He’d performed this same song and dance so often, he could do it all with his eyes closed. 

John squirted a drop of the formula on his hand, then furrowed his brow. “Babe? Is this warm enough, you think?” He walked back into the living space and handed Claire the bottle. 

“I think so,” she proclaimed after testing the liquid herself. In the kid’s mouth the nipple went. The rubber nipple. Not as fun as the real nipple—for John—or as tasty—for Dani—but the baby must’ve been quite hungry indeed because she was giving no resistance. 

Rarely did Bender call Claire anything but her actual name in front of people. Maybe Cherry or Princess, if he was in a good mood. Pet names were reserved for when they were alone. Hell, Queenie didn’t really even have one for him; she’d decided long ago that nothing sounded appropriately John other than “John”. Although…she did call him Criminal occasionally, but, eh, usually only when they were having a particularly good time. 

Right now, the endearment had just slipped out. If he was and/or had a head-shrinker like Allison, he’d suggest that, unconsciously, John wanted to demonstrate for his mother that he had a pretty damn good, if comfortable, life here, one all his own. He didn’t need his parents, never had. He was a dad now. He had a live-in girlfriend, one who’d steadily been a part of his life for coming up six years. He had a job. He had a place of his own, even if he wasn’t technically paying for it. So many times in the past had his old man given him the “You live in my house, you live under my rules!” lecture, generally after he ventured home at near midnight or left his coat in the living room or, like, scarfed down one of Jake’s Slim Jims. Young John knew never to touch his old man’s beer, a lesson he’d learned the hard way. 

Bender lived under a different roof now. One that, yeah, may have been rented by Rich but he and Claire were living independently in. He made up his own damn rules. And then broke them. 

He didn’t require a freaking thing from either of his parents, thank you. 

Laura smiled and approached the chair Claire and Dani occupied. “How do y’all feed her? Is she breast or bottle fed?”

“Both,” the Princess replied, not looking away from Dani’s concentrated little face. She always looked so serious when she was eating. That, Dani had gotten from him. He took his food *very* seriously. “We try to stick to breastmilk at night and formula during the day. Sometimes, Danielle is stubborn.”

John scoffed, amused. “Sometimes?” 

Claire glanced up at him and laughed. He loved her laugh. To him, it sounded like wind chimes. Or bells. Or something like that. 

Her gaze moved to his ma, her smile quickly morphing into a frown. One hand rose to her throat; it seemed to be an unconscious reaction. “L—Laura, what’s that on your neck?”

Bender’s mother’s eyes widened, fingers curling around her own throat over the top of the scarf. “Wh—what? It’s nothin’…”

Instantly, John felt his stomach drop. Narrowing his eyes, he started marching across the room to where they both perched. “*What*?” 

Laura’s blonde head swiveled. “Johnny, really, it’s nothin’.”

'Like fuck'. “Let me see.”

His ma backed up a step; Claire was staring between them, silent but agog. “I—I promise, it really is nothing…” 

Lo how many times he’d heard Laura say those exact words. Shockingly, it was never really nothing. “Ma…” 

She hesitated only another few seconds, then sighed, shoulders slumping, as she unwound the scarf from her neck. 

Bruises. They were distinctly bruises—slightly faded, with a greenish tinge, but still definitely bruises. He counted ten of them. Ten blemishes for ten fingers. The marks encircling Laura’s neck had been made with larger than average digits, but even without that knowledge, he was acutely aware that this could only be the work of Dear Old Dad. 

Bender instantly saw red. “Fuck,” he stage-whispered, gently prodding the mark nearest his ma’s collarbone. His lips pursed when she winced. “Did *he* do this?”

'Unnecessary question. Obviously, Dad did this'. 

“It’s nothin’,” his mother continued to deny, even though he could clearly see the blue-purple bruises just before him. “Just had a…a small disagreement.” Looking down at her shoes, she quietly added, “You know how your father gets.”

Still seated in the lounge chair, Claire looked absolutely horrified. She’d known, of course she’d known, what his old man was like. God knew she’d tended to his wounds a multitude of times before he moved out of that shit hole. But this…his ma, a woman the size of a Keebler elf, with limbs that appeared as if they could snap like a twig, with hand-marks around her neck…

This was truly another window into his adolescence. John’s past was colliding with his present, and the proof was in the pudding. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself slamming the front door, racing outside, and driving the twenty minutes back to Shermer to kick his father’s ass, as he’d always wanted to do while he was living there. 

Indeed, old habits do die hard. This was pure proof of what he’d abandoned his mother to. Of *who* he’d abandoned his mother to. 

Claire could read him quite easily. Balancing Dani in one arm, she lightly grasped his hand in the other. Immediately, some of the tension eased from his bunched up shoulders, and his fisted fingers relaxed. 

But he still ached to murder the man. 

John swallowed harshly. “Yeah, I know exactly how he gets. He fucking choked you?!”

Laura’s gaze darted to the seated Claire, as though she wasn’t sure how much information his girlfriend was privy to. Or, like, she was wary of talking about “such things”. He hadn’t kept Claire in the dark; it would’ve been impossible to, with how many times he’d crashed at the Standish house (estate, really) trying not to drip blood all over Claire’s pink carpet. 

“It was just a misunderstandin’,” his ma insisted again without meeting his eyes. “Please, Johnny, it’s fine…” 

Bender jeered. “Like hell it is!” A beat as he forced himself to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Slowly. “What sort of 'misunderstanding', Ma?”

Laura was still avoiding his gaze. “Um…your daddy thought that, um…I was havin’ an affair with Mr. Beasley.”

John’s eyes nearly popped right out of his skull. “Mr. Beasley?!”

Back in Shermer, Mr. Beasley had been—and still was, apparently—the kindly old dude next door. Both properties shared a chain-link fence, so a young John would often chat with the old timer when he left the house in the morning to go to school, or to pick up the paper on weekends, or to get the mail. Beasley was an interesting guy, a WWII veteran who’d fought in Italy and France. And he was cool, too. Definitely not one of those “Stupid kids, get off my lawn!” old folks. 

The man had to be in his eighties now. When John had lived there, Mr. Beasley could barely support himself on his own legs, twisted as they were with arthritis. He couldn’t even imagine what he must’ve looked and felt like now. And Jake had thought his wife was cheating with him?!

Laura’s shrug was infinitesimal. “I talk to him every mornin’ before I go to my NA meetings. Lately, I’ve been pickin’ up stuff for him, ‘cus his arthritis is really bad now. Just groceries at the market or mail from the post office. You know.” She cleared her throat. “Well, your father somehow got it in his head…and he confronted me about it.”

“When?” John’s query was barely discernable even to his own ears. 

“A—a few days ago,” she stuttered. One of her fingers brushed the side of her neck. “It was only for a second.” 

Bender was incredulous. “Ma! He left fingerprints on you, for Christ’s sake! I’ll kill him, I swear to fucking God—“ 

Now, Laura’s gaze snapped to his. Clutching his bicep, she cried, “Johnny, no! Just…please, leave it alone. Okay? Please. I don’t want him to hurt you again on my account.” 

John’s fingers curled into fists for the second time in five minutes. He was arguing with himself over whether to heed his ma’s plea or allow his fantasy to come to fruition and beat that mother fucker’s face in until he had no teeth left. 

Below him, Claire was gazing between John and Laura, that same stricken expression on her face, as Dani continued to drink from the bottle she was balancing methodically. At once, he observed as that same visage was blinked away into one of…perhaps a mixture of desperation, anxiety, and faux cheer? He could usually read Claire quite clearly, but now, she was all over the place. “Laura, um, why don’t you stay here for the weekend?”

John’s eyebrows rose. 

His ma looked torn. Surprised and torn. Again, she was fiddling with her fingers, needing something to do with her hands. He recalled the nervous habit; it was why she’d taken up knitting. He’d worn many embarrassing handmade socks and scarves in junior high due to her love of crochet. “Oh! Oh, um, I—I couldn’t. I mean, I couldn’t impose like that.”

“It’s no imposition!” Claire insisted while wearing a too bright smile on her face. “We have plenty of room. Er, we turned the extra bedroom into a nursery, but there’s a cot in there! Unless you don’t want to sleep with a screaming baby, in which case the couch pulls out.” 

Laura stepped forward, still fiddling with her hands. “No, I’d love to sleep with the baby! I could help out. I—I’m sure y’all haven’t gotten much sleep since you brought her home…” 

'That’s putting it lightly.'

“But are you sure it wouldn’t be a problem?” she continued, worrying her lip between her front teeth. 

“No problem at all!” Claire chirped; her voice was too high. John stared down at the top of her red head. 

“Well…” his ma dithered. “Thank you. I, uh, don’t have nothin’ to wear, though. ‘Cept what I got on now.” 

John’s girlfriend sized his mother up, toes to tip. “I can lend you some of my stuff. The tops should fit. Pants may be a bit big.”

Laura twiddled her thumbs. “Th—that would be fine…”

Claire smiled falsely and slowly rose from the chair, a sated Dani over her shoulder. “I’ll prepare the cot.”

John darted forward. “I’ll help.” 

While Claire ventured into the nursery with Dani, John walked to the linen closet where he’d stashed his R2D2 vacuum, gave it a pat on the head, and said, “Not today, dude.” Hauling down an extra set of pillows and blankets, he carried them into the dim light of the nursery. Dani was sitting up in the crib, which she had just started to do herself recently, playing with her dragon. Cherry was in the process of setting up the cot. 

John dropped the pillows on the edge of the bed while Claire was smoothing out any wrinkles in the sheets. She was shaking, subtly, but he could plainly see that her motions weren’t completely under her own control. Her shoulders were tense. When Claire was anxious or afraid, she tried to keep herself busy. Like before her final exams, when she’d cleaned the entire apartment top to bottom. Even the ceilings. 

“Hey.” Curling his fingers around her collarbone, he rubbed her shoulders until they began to unwind a bit.

Claire inhaled and turned to face him. He leant his forehead against hers. “Thanks.”

Cherry sighed and loosely wrapped her arms around his neck. “Your father is a monster.”

John’s lips thinned. “Yeah.”

The limbs resting against his shoulders tightened, her soft skin brushing against his own. “I hate knowing that you were stuck there for eighteen years.”

Bender placed his own hands on her hips, caressing the skin there through her robe and chemise. “Yeah, well. I had places to go. People to crash with. Ty and Ash and some other guys.” Up quirked the right corner of his mouth. “And you, later on.” 

Only after that last comment did Claire’s façade morph into a genuine smile. He could absolutely tell the difference between a faux one and a real one. The legitimate smiles made her eyes sparkle and punctured him right in the heart. “I can’t believe we never got caught.” 

They both laughed, but John’s ended with a slight cringe. “Uh, we kinda did. Once.”

Claire’s forehead wrinkled in confusion.

He continued, albeit sheepishly. “It was a night where we just, you know, slept instead of…*slept*.” John watched her face color and chuckled. “I was lying beside you on your bed when your old man peeked in. We, uh, forgot to lock the door. When he saw me, I thought he was gonna murder me. And, for a second, he looked like he was about to throw me off your balcony.” A shrug. “Until he saw my bruises, care of my own old man. The big ass one on my eye and the cuts on my face… So, he just sighed and told me to sleep on the couch.”

Claire’s delectable lips parted. “So *that’s* why you were on the sofa! You said I was kicking you.”

“Granted, you were.” She whacked his bicep, and he snickered. 

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” she asked, tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear. 

Bender shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed or something. Or maybe I didn’t want you to freak out.” 

“I wouldn’t have freaked out!” she gasped, pouting adorably. 

John quirked an eyebrow. “Yes. You totally would have. And then claimed your dad thought you were a harlot and wanted to ship you off to Catholic school.” A pause. “Not that I’d have a problem seeing you wearing one of those Catholic schoolgirl uniforms.” 

Claire shook her head and laughed, and they finished setting up the cot for his ma.  
***  
Meanwhile, the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Clark were on the third day of their cruise. The ship, aptly named Ice Princess, had left Sitka and was now on its way to Juneau. The vacation had been great so far, truly already the honeymoon of their dreams. After San Fran, the Ice Princess sailed through the Inside Passage, where they gazed upon towering glaciers and fjords, forested shorelines, cliffs and waterfalls, and assorted marine life—playful dolphins and leaping whales and fat sea lions assembled on the coast. The ship let them off for the day to explore the town of Ketchikan. There, they toured Totem Bright State Park and the Alaska Rainforest Sanctuary, had lunch at the George Inlet Lodge, and walked down Creek Street. After a day on the Pacific that was spent alternately on the lido deck checking out all the buffet had to offer (a lot of Alaskan King crab legs) and on their own private deck testing out the Jacuzzi, the Ice Princess was now well on its way to the Alaskan capital. 

Andy was psyched. His cousin was going to school in Juneau and was planning on meeting them at the Juneau Cruise Ship Terminal. According to Charlie, the capital was the most beautiful city in America. 

When the ship docked, Ally already had on her bright red Mario parka and Toad mittens. She pulled on a pair of beige mukluks over her Donkey Kong socks, but quickly changed her mind and went with the fringy boots Sloane had given her instead. 

Andy wandered over to his wife (!!!) where she was perched on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Al, relax. He’s not even going to be here for two hours.”

Allison paused tying her bootlace and sighed, smiling a tad sheepishly and shrugging off the coat. “Sorry. Guess I’m a little excited.” 

He smiled down at her. “A little?” 

Ally shrugged and flipped on the Panasonic. Cruise-TV was showing a rerun of 'The Love Boat.' “Okay, maybe a tad more than a little! I just…I’ve never met your cousin. What if he doesn’t like me?”

That made Andy laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh. Growing up, Charlie had gotten on with absolutely everyone. He was one of those Ferris Bueller types. Now that he considered it, he thought Charlie had even met Bueller’s sister, Jeanie, once. At the Shermer Police Precinct, of all places, following one of Charlie’s ill-advised benders. Why Jeanie was there he didn’t know. Something to do with a break-in. 

“Trust me,” Andy said, still chuckling. “Charlie will love you.” 

Two hours later, after they had breakfast in one of the ship’s portside cafés (bacon and eggs for him, cupcake French toast for her), Andy shrugged on his own blue parka and trusty hiking boots and followed Ally out to the dock to disembark. Charlie was just going to show them the sights, but there was two feet of snow on the ground, and Andy didn’t want to be caught in the dead of an Alaskan winter with his feet freezing; he’d also slipped on two pairs of tube socks. Allison, however, seemed to be cold-blooded and thus wore her parka unzipped without even a scarf.

Idling on the cement dock, just as he said he’d be, was Andy’s cousin, Charlie Clark. He was really the only family member on his dad’s side that Andy got along with. As kids, growing up just a year apart, they’d made their mark on Shermer. Swimming in the quarry in the woods near Bender’s house. Climbing the highest tree in town. Gathering the entire block for a game of Manhunt at midnight. As they grew older, though, Charlie…really leaned into being the “rebellious Clark”. He partied a lot. Dabbled in hard drugs. Did a lot of sleeping around. Andy’s mom once needed to bail him out of county for laying the five-finger discount on some vinyl from the local record store. As a teenager, Andy admired Charlie as well as grew a bit wary of him. His “give no fucks” attitude was inspiring, in a way, even though it got him into trouble, like, all the time. Andy gave *so* many fucks. At least as a teenager. 

Charlie was leaning against an unlit gaslight, wearing his usual black leather jacket and black jeans. The only acknowledgement of the frigid Alaskan weather seemed to be a pair of thin gloves. His cousin was also cold-blooded. 

Charlie grinned around the cigarette he was smoking when he spotted them. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Clark!”

Andy grinned, jogged the few feet to meet his cousin, and slugged him in the shoulder. Clarks didn’t hug; they either punched or dogpiled. “Good to see you, dude!” 

Charlie had spent an extra two years backpacking through the States, financing his adventures via odd jobs here and there. He skated in Rockefeller Center on Christmas Eve in New York City. Swam with alligators in the Florida Everglades. Learned how to ride a bucking bronco in Texas. Plowed a farm in Wyoming. Acted in a few commercials in Los Angeles. One day while visiting the UDub campus in Washington, he, a bit drunk, discovered an application in the Transfers Office to the University of Alaska Southeast. He filled it out, sent it in, and lo and behold, he actually got accepted. The guy may have done the occasional dumbass thing, but he was a smart cookie. 

Now, he was here in his second year, studying for his MBA. 

“This is Allison,” Andy continued, gesturing his suddenly shy wife forth. 

Charlie took her hand and gave it a firm shake. “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Clark.”

Ally grinned. He knew she’d get along with Charlie. 

Charlie was happy to be their tour guide. The Ice Princess would be docked at port for the next few hours, and his cousin made the most of the time, using shortcuts to take them around to the Nugget Falls (a waterfall near a glacier; Andy was glad he’d worn his hiking boots) and the Alaska State Museum, Eagle Beach, the Mount Roberts Tramway, and, his favorite place, the Alaskan Brewery and Bottling Company. 

Afterwards, Charlie took them to Hangar on the Wharf, which, according to him, served the best burgers in Alaska. When Andy bit into his, he decided he wasn’t wrong. Though he supposed he’d need to eat some more Alaskan burgers to truly decide.

They were eating outside, gathered around a small wrought iron table, watching seaplanes take off on the clear blue waters of the Gastineau Channel. Beside him, Allison chomped on her veggie burger and cooed down at the owner’s malamute, who was lapping up the attention.

“So,” Andy started as he dipped a fry in a vat of mustard. Chicagoans did not do ketchup; they were mustard all the way. “I was thinking earlier…I’m pretty sure you met my friend’s sister.” 

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Ferris Bueller. His sister is Jeanie Bueller.” 

Charlie barked a laugh over his own humongous burger. “Ah, I know Jean. We met in the precinct. She tried to get me to call her Shauna. She’s cute. Looks like a young Barbra Streisand.” 

“I’ll tell her you said so,” Andy grinned, absently patting the approaching malamute on its furry head. “Might be hard to approach her, though. Jeanie pretty much despises any of her brother’s friends.”

His cousin bit into a pickle. “Isn’t that, like, most of town?” 

“Pretty much.”

Allison glanced down at her black Swatch. “We have three hours left before the ship sets sail. What’re we gonna do after this?”

Charlie swallowed a steak fry. “You guys ever been white water rafting?”

Allison squealed. This was really turning into the most awesome honeymoon.  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I can see John wearing Hulk Hogan slippers
> 
> Note 2: I wanted to delve into more just *why* John was so incredibly angry that day. Of course he'd be a wreck every day living with that family, but I wanted to dive into his psyche, and what may have propelled him on that particular day. His mother falling off the wagon after a longish sober period would have made him both fearless and hopeless, traits he exhibited on that day.
> 
> Note 3: Something tells me Bender would not know what a peplum was.
> 
> Note 4: I had to mention Bon Jovi at some point. The whole group graduated from my old high school in 1985, I think. My math teacher worked with his mom as head of the fan club, and my former soccer coach is mentioned in a song lyric. "Tell Coach T I cut my hair." Dulé Hill from "Psych" also went here.
> 
> Note 5: On my first cruise, Cruise-TV showed "Titanic". It was hilarious.
> 
> Note 6: Naturally, I made the Sheen brothers related. Having Charlie Sheen's drugged-out hoodlum know his brother's Andy Clark randomly came to me as I was writing this.
> 
> Note 7: All the places mentioned are actual sights in Juneau. Hangar on the Warf included.


	33. Chapter 32: Giving You the Benefit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a small procedure done on Wednesday so I'm sitting here writing and editing with a wrap-bandage around my head like a babushka who just had a tooth pulled.

Chapter 32: Giving You the Benefit

At the same time, on the same day, Brian lay abed, his head braced by too many pillows, outfitted in his Darth Vader pajamas. To his right, on a bedside table, rested a box of Kleenex, under which perched a wicker wastebasket nearly overflowing with used tissues. Brian’s blond hair, he knew, was a bird’s nest, one he’d need to wrangle when he wasn’t trapped in this apartment. His nose felt inflamed and irritated, his tongue dry and coated, and his eyes swollen. 

He hated being sick. 

It started a few days earlier, when he, Jackie, and his mother were still in Baltimore. Mercedes wanted very badly to go to the Baltimore Zoo and see the giraffes. One of the mama giraffes had recently given birth to a beautiful albino calf, very rare and rarely seen outside of southern African countries. Unfortunately, the day she wanted to go, the only one allowing them all a block of time, it was raining. Pouring, really. And most of the zoo, like most zoos, was outside. The inclement weather, however, had not deterred Mercedes Johnson. When Brian’s mother wanted to do something, she damn well got it done. 

Even if it meant slogging through a downpour for hours on end. 

Mercedes had the ideal immune system, one that, apparently, never got sick. His whole life, Brian could scarcely recollect his mother contracting anything more serious than a cold, and that was just one or two times. In twenty-two years. Brian, alas, was not so lucky. His own immune system was weaker due to his childhood asthma and the corticosteroids he’d needed to take to treat it, so if someone even sneezed around him, he was liable to catch something. Mercedes had conveniently forgotten this tidbit while she led Brian and Jackie around, chattering excitedly about marsupials. 

He was incredibly fortunate that he didn’t get pneumonia. He did come down with a fever and chest cold, though. It’d had him really regretting booking the return flight for 10 PM. 

The day after that, they were given a tour of the main buildings that comprised Johns Hopkins, from the Student Union to the various on-campus libraries to the chemistry and biology labs. As a graduation student, he’d mostly be sticking to a few close-knit buildings, but it was always pertinent information to know where the dining halls were. 

That afternoon ended with getting food at the Italian place beneath the apartment. Over her mushroom and zucchini pizza, Mercedes mumbled that Chicago Deep Dish was far more superior. 

The rest of the day was spent at the airport. Brian had already been coming down with that chest cold, so being trapped in that place was twice as vexing. 

Back at home, it’d taken far too much prodding from both he and Jackie to get Mercedes to leave while “her baby” was under the weather. Up until two hours earlier, she was paddling in and out of Brian’s bedroom every ten minutes, arguing with Jackie over the best way to “take care” of him, and whipping up homeopathic remedies that obviously had no soothing effects and forcing Brian to drink them down or, once, bathe in them. 

Now, it was the evening, and his girlfriend was in the process of heating up his kitchen with Sylvia’s famous chicken soup ramen. “Guaranteed to cure what ails ya!” The smells emanating from the kitchen were heavenly, from what Brian could discern through his stuffed nose.

Jackie pushed through the bedroom door carrying a glass of orange soda. She placed it down on the bedside table next to his box of Kleenex. “What’s this for?” Brian asked, taking a tentative sip of the pop and making a face.

“Flat soda,” she explained, amplifying her voice over the episode of 'Miami Vice' playing on his TV. “Takes away nausea and headaches. I know you. When you have a cold, you get a migraine.”

Brian inclined his head. It was true, he did. 

Further dropping a bottle of Tylenol on the table, she added, “If you need ‘em, take these. Soup should be done soon. And I want you to eat a full bowl, mister!”

He was almost irked at how much Jackie sounded like his mother just then.

A knock sounded at the front door to his apartment, and Jackie rolled her eyes while Brian cringed. “If that’s your mom again, I suggest we not answer the door.”

“I back that up entirely.”

She spun on her heel and returned to the living area to answer the door. He heard a creak, a groan, and then definitely not the expected voice of his mother. 

“Jacqueline, may I come in?” Mr. Takahari asked. His tone sounded less sharp and prideful than he was used to. 

“I don’t know, Dad, this is Brian’s apartment, not mine” came the monotone reply. A few seconds later, she sighed and added, “Fine. Come in.”

The front door closed with a click. Brian lowered the volume on the TV. 

Mr. Takahari cleared his throat. “You are leaving in a few weeks?”

Jackie made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. 

Mr. Takahari exhaled audibly. “Jacqueline, I don’t want you go to halfway across the country angry.”

“You don’t want me to go halfway across the country at all.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted. Brian could hear the bashful shrug in his voice. “Is that so wrong?”

Jackie scoffed. “Please. You’d love if I went to Johns Hopkins…if Brian wasn’t going, too.” 

There was a beat of silence, then—“I apologized to Mr. Johnson—“ 

“This isn’t just about Brian, Dad!” Jackie interrupted in an uncharacteristically elevated tone. 

Brian wrinkled his brow. This was new information to him. 

Jackie exhaled, and then there was the distinct sound of the sofa springs groaning with extra weight. “For years, you’ve been on me *hard* about my grades. Anything below an A wasn’t good enough for you. Do you know how weird I felt in school being the only little girl carrying around an abacus?” 

He could practically feel the pregnant pause between father and daughter whispering on his skin, tickling the downy hair on his arms. Brian lowered his gaze to his tissue-covered chest, staring at a glob of Vicks that hadn’t been rubbed in properly. 

Jackie laughed humorlessly, ruefully. “I wasn’t surprised when you teamed up with Mrs. Johnson. You’re just like her. Grades are everything, so keep piling on the pressure until our shoulders snap under the weight.” A beat. “And the first time I meet someone I can really be happy with, you try to break us up! I just…I can’t look at you right now.” 

Brian heard Mr. Takahari respire, hesitate, and then the echo of his footfalls as he walked out of the apartment. 

When Jackie slinked back into his bedroom, rivulets of salty tears were tracking down her cheeks. Wordlessly, Brian scooted over and wrapped an arm around her as she sobbed into his shoulder.   
**  
Claire spent the afternoon taking care of Danielle, as she would’ve expected, and listening to more anecdotes of John’s childhood from his mother, which she definitely had not prior to this morning. In fact, she had come to accept that it was unlikely she’d ever meet his parents, not that she particularly wanted to—Mr. Bender, anyway. Claire had known all about Jake Bender for years, starting from that first day in detention; the longer she was with John, the more comfortable he grew talking candidly about his father with her. Over time, the middle-of-the-night visits from a broken and bleeding Bender also doubled, and she grew to understand even more. She never cared if he dripped blood on her carpet or used her fancy designer towels to blot at a wound or showed up high as a kite after trying to staunch the pain with a joint or two. It only mattered that he had somewhere to go, somewhere he was at ease being. It warmed her heart knowing that it was with her. 

His mother, though…he had rarely talked about his mother in the past. Every now and then, he’d mutter that she was an addict, or that he occasionally took beatings reserved for her, but, otherwise, his relationship with his mother remained mostly a mystery. She’d gotten a bit of insight that day during his post-Life at Big Bri’s House demonstration of his own family life, so Claire got it in her head that she was as miserable as his dad, and just as cruel. 

She didn’t appear to be. Claire had spent the whole of Saturday laughing with Laura over cups of coffee and slices of pizza whilst the woman orated numerous stories about John as a child. Her boyfriend wasn’t really one to talk about his past, not often, so Claire’s glimpses into his childhood were a few old photos she’d accidentally seen in his locker once and tickled, usually drunken yarns about life with his grandfather. Claire had known early on to avoid probing questions about John’s home life. He was reluctant to discuss it, any of it, whether he was knocking on her window at 11 PM with a blooming black eye or not. John tended to clamp up when she prodded about that stuff. And the last thing she wanted was to hurt him more. So she would stitch him up without the third degree. If he wanted to talk about it, he would. 

Laura didn’t seem the type to tacitly concede to her husband’s abusive behavior towards her son. But she was sober now; Claire had no idea what she was like off the wagon.

John did. Thus, while Claire liked *this* version of Laura, she still regarded her with wariness. 

“And then, he ran across the road! I thought I was going to have a heart attack, swear to God!” 

Claire erupted in giggles as Laura clutched her chest. They were seated on opposite ends of the small dining room table just off the kitchen, legs crossed one over the other, steaming mugs placed before them. Danielle was in the living room, easily observed from the alcove, splayed on a handmade quilt playing with her activity arch. Her hands ignored the stars and planets and instead kept reaching for the little green alien in its UFO. 

Laura had been gleefully regaling Claire with stories all afternoon, anecdotes about John’s childhood that served as little glimpses into his youth. All of Laura’s narratives were lighter fare; she skimmed around the cumbersome blackness that surrounded John’s life until he was old enough to gain some independence. She probably thought it would’ve been awkward talking to her about anything else. 

“I can’t believe he just ran across a highway,” Claire said, shaking her head. “Oh, wait. Yes, I can. I can totally believe that.”

Laura sipped at her coffee. “Luckily, it was a small highway, but…dang, he really wanted to see those cows. And nothin’ was gonna get in his way.”

“Sounds like John. When he’s determined, he’ll get whatever done.” 

Claire glanced at a wriggling Danielle. Not that these anecdotes weren’t entertaining—in fact, they embarrassed John so much, he’d taken off to work for a few hours even though he had Saturdays off—but she was entirely aware that they were dodging and quietly circling the big elephant in the room. Claire watched her daughter attempt to stretch one hand straight up; the other one she shoved in her mouth. 

Across the table from her, John’s mother exhaled, a watery sort of smile-grimace on her face. Claire watched as the woman reached across the wooden tabletop to loosely grasp her fingers. Surprised, Claire could only let her.

Laura glanced down at the table. “I know. I mean, I know this must be a tad…well, weird for you. Or awkward or somethin’.” 

Claire remained silent, the slight tension about her shoulders quadrupling with Laura’s words. She stared down at her hands, not saying anything. 

“I know we’re avoiding…stuff,” she continued, bashfully shifting in her seat. “But it doesn’t feel right to talk about any of it without Johnny here. I just want you to know, um…” The blonde woman raised her head, smiling thinly. “I’m grateful. For you and Danielle and all of y’all. That my boy had places to go…when he couldn’t come home.” 

In response, Claire squeezed the hand lightly clutched in her own. She didn’t really know what to say. “You’re welcome for giving your abused son a place to crash so he didn’t have to sleep on a park bench”? 

Later that night, as they were all getting ready for bed, Claire walked into the nursery with a freshly washed Danielle over her shoulder. Laura perched on the cot opposite Danielle’s crib wearing a pair of Claire’s pajamas, a relatively new pair she’d picked up post-baby; she was not always in the mood for her cute little nightgowns nowadays, much to John’s chagrin. Snorting, Claire lowered the infant into her crib, where she immediately grabbed the petri dish rattle and started chewing on it.

'She’s not getting anywhere near my shoes'. 

Exhaling between her lips, Claire approached John’s mother. She was excited about the prospect of actually getting some real sleep tonight. “Everything okay?”

Laura was in the middle of climbing under the covers. “A-ok here!”

Claire shifted on her feet, twisting this way and that. Behind her, her hands were clasped at her lower spine. “The, er, the cot feels okay?”

One arm rose to wave the thought away. “Please, this thing’s more comfortable than the bed I’ve been sleeping on for seven years.”

“Okay,” she said with a small laugh, then turned around to tuck in Danielle and kiss her on top of her red head. “Goodnight, sweetie. You be good for your Nana, okay?”

In reply, Danielle sucked on the rattle. Claire replaced the toy with a purple pacifier. 

“Oh, we’ll be fine, won’t we, honey?” Laura called out to Danielle—her granddaughter. The sucking noises from the pacifier increased. 

With one last glance over her shoulder, Claire walked out of the nursery. John was lingering in the doorway wearing his pajamas. Following a brief, unreadable look at her, he brushed inside. Biting her lip, Claire tiptoed across the hall into the bedroom and flipped on the baby monitor. 

Eavesdropping was a skill that she’d honed quite admirably years ago.

John’s deep exhalation came over the monitor. She could imagine him standing there, slightly hunched over, his hands shoved in the pockets of his pajama pants. “So…everything all right? You good?”

“I’m good,” Laura replied. “Cot’s better for my back than my own mattress.” 

“You still have that thing?” he crackled in reply; she could hear the eye roll in his voice. “I remember when you bought it. It was used *then* and had a dip in it like Homer Simpson had been sleeping in the middle.” 

His mother’s laughter tinkled through the speaker. “Yeah, that dip’s gotten worse. Your daddy and I are always falling in it.” 

When the woman brought up John’s father, briefly mentioning him, she could practically feel the tension oozing through the latches, so dense that one could cut it with a knife. Claire pursed her lips. A cloud of static washed over the radio in lieu of the participants’ awkward silence. 

Unconsciously, Claire brought the monitor closer to her ear.

After a moment, John cleared his throat. “Uh, all right. Then, I’ll just…” 

The Princess could hear muffled footfalls in the background, and she began scampering into bed. The last thing she wanted was for him to catch her eavesdropping…again. Usually, she was very good at not getting caught, but, like with most things, he was the exception. No one else could read her true emotions like him. No one ever caught her out except for him. No one could make her lose her damn mind like he could. 

Laura calling his name halted his progression. 

“Yeah?”

“Um,” she fumbled. Damn, Claire really wished she could see them right now. The damn hall light made close-range intelligence-gathering impossible. “I want you to know that, um, I—I really am eight months sober. Just went to an NA meeting a few days ago for my chip.”

John’s tinny sigh flooded the room, bouncing from corner to corner, ringing in both ears. Well, the left one more. Seeing as she had the rectangular device right on top of her eardrum. Claire winced. “That’s great, Ma. Really.” Pause. She knew that this was just a hesitation. Claire could always tell when John had more to say. 'Here it comes'. “But you’ve said that before.”

Another exhalation, this one of a higher tone. “I—I know, but—“ 

“I mean,” John interceded, and Claire pulled the speaker that much closer to her ear. “You’ve never been *eight* months sober, but you have been seven. And then you started using again.” 

There was another beat of quiescence; Claire gave the white monitor a good, hefty shake to make sure it was working. 

When Laura spoke again, her voice was softer, so soft that Claire had to strain to hear it. “I know, Johnny, but I—“ 

Once more, her boyfriend interrupted. Claire both wanted to hug him and smack him for disrupting what Laura was trying to say or going to say or… 'Damnit, John! You’re ruining this experience.'

“It would be one thing if it was just me again, you know?” Claire thought she perceived a very subtle catch in his throat, and she was instantly awash in contrition. “But it’s…things are different…now.” The sound of a deep breath, then a whisper of laughter that was uncomfortable and devoid of all humor. “I’ve got Dani. I’ve got Claire. I can’t have you disappointing them.”

And, right then and there, in the master bedroom covertly spying on her boyfriend’s and his mother’s conversation, Claire felt her eyes well up with tears. Her grip on the monitor loosened enough so that it almost clattered to the floor. 'Oh, John. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be doing this.' 

But she didn’t put the device down or turn it off. 'I hate myself.'

“I know, Johnny,” Laura said, her voice steadier than it had been. Almost…nostalgic. “Believe me, I—I understand. You can kick me out now. Wouldn’t hold it against you.” 

Claire held her breath as she waited for John’s response. 

“Nah,” he replied following a brief hesitation. The air whooshed out of Claire’s lungs. She wasn’t sure exactly how to feel about Laura Bender, but she definitely didn’t want to kick her out on the streets. Or worse, send her back to that monster. Even though she’d likely have to. At some point. “Claire said you can stay, so…you can stay.”

Laura thanked him and added, “She’s a nice girl, your Claire.”

John barked a laugh, and the redhead scowled. “Sometimes.”

'I’m always nice!'

Yeah, even she didn’t believe that. 

Footfalls echoed through the speaker, and John’s rumbly voice continued. “All right, kid. Be good for your Nana, okay? Try not to drool all over her.”

Dani whine-giggled and burbled baby talk. Claire’s scowl melted. 

“That’s right,” he agreed as if he could understand her. 

She heard him kiss her head, tuck her in, and traverse the few steps to the entrance to the nursery. Claire was about to hurriedly switch the monitor off when Laura hesitantly called him back. “Johnny?”

“Yeah?”

“Look,” John’s mother continued, a bit strained. “I…I just want you to know that I’m proud of you.” There was another pregnant pause, and Claire brought the contraption close again. “Here, you’re successful. Got a roof over your head. Beautiful little girl. Someone who loves you. And I know that’s *in spite* of us…not because of. I’m so proud of you.”

Claire’s eyes were stinging with unshed tears. 

She could hear John’s lingering footfalls in the hallway. “Thanks, Ma.”

Unthinkingly, Claire raised a wrist up to her watering eyes to wipe away the skinny trails of salty tears. So distracted was she that she damn near jumped out of her skin when John, hanging in the threshold to their bedroom, cleared his throat, a ghost of a smirk about his lips. 

“Jesus!” Claire exclaimed whilst one hand rose to her chest. 

John crossed his arms over his white t-shirt. “Eavesdropping, were you?”

Heat suffused her cheeks and the back of her neck; she hoped it wasn’t obvious. “I was not.”

John snorted. “Claire. I could hear you breathing over the monitor. You know, the one that wasn’t *on* a few minutes ago? The one that’s still in your hand?” 

Caught red-handed. Sighing, she glanced down at the smoking gun, glowered at it as though her snooping were the monitor’s fault, then replaced it on top of the Bart headboard. “Okay, fine. I may have heard…stuff.”

“'Stuff?'” he repeated, eyebrows quirking.

Agitated, Claire threw her arms in the air, listening to them slap her sides with finality. “Okay! I heard everything. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” Walking further into the room, her boyfriend climbed under the sheets, looked up at her once more, laughed, and lay his head on the pillow. 

Claire placed her hands on her hips. “And what is so funny?”

The laughter continued. “You. In your Snoopy nightgown and my socks. Trying to pretend like you weren’t hanging on every word.” 

She frowned and gazed down at herself. She was draped in a white Peanuts nightie with black baseball sleeves. Depicted on the front was the famous beagle gesturing to Woodstock, an air-bubble over his head that said “Little things mean a lot!” Her feet were sheathed in white socks that were definitely not women’s. 

Claire climbed into bed beside him. “Yours are warmer.”

“I would happily warm you up, Princess. All you have to do is ask.”

“You’re such a horn dog.” The redhead rolled her eyes and flicked off the lamp while John continued to cackle.  
**  
It was fucking ironic. Although this was the night he could finally lay his head down and get some decent rest, he still couldn’t keep his frigging eyes closed. The hours ticked by, the Garfield alarm clock on the bedside table counting them down, down, down. 11:30. 12:30. 1:30. The red numbers and the grinning orange clock seemed to be mocking him. John had tried everything he could think of to fall asleep—drinking a glass of juice (he hated milk unless it was in coffee), counting sheep, reciting the lines of some poem he read on the back of a box of Lucky Charms that morning. He’d switched positions so many damn times, it was comical. Right side. Left side. On his back. On his stomach. He even tried sleeping on the opposite end of the bed with his feet up on the pillow and his head nearly hanging off the end. Claire threw his Bart doll at him and demanded he get his feet away from her face. 

At least he wasn’t alone. His girlfriend couldn’t sleep, either. 

Claire, too, had rolled over so many times, she rolled herself right off the edge of the bed and into a heap of arms, legs, and Snoopy on the floor. John burst out laughing, and she glowered at him while she hauled herself to her feet and climbed back under the sheets. 

He was worried about Dani, obviously. Claire, as well. She had risen dutifully at 1:00 to feed her, but otherwise, they were trying to let his ma take care of her tonight. Keyword: trying. His daughter had been remarkably quiet this fine evening, but that hadn’t stopped him from creaking to the threshold of the master bedroom and peering through the darkness into the nursery, jittery that *something* was amiss. 

Yep. Parenthood. 

By 2:00, they were both staring stupidly up at the ceiling, eyes wide open and slowly adjusting to the lack of light. There was a crack in the plaster that looked kind of like Phil Donahue. 

“This is ridiculous,” Claire grunted beside him. She sat up, turned around, landed a fist in her pillow, and plopped back down again. “We’re supposed to be sleeping!”

John sighed and rolled over again to bury his face in his own pillow. “Maybe we should pretend we’re in detention. We fell asleep pretty easily in there,” he said, voice muffled. 

He could feel Claire’s eyes on him. “I actually tried that. Didn’t work.”

John groaned. “Fuck me.” He paused. “Hey, that might do the trick.” 

He heard Claire sputter beside him. “Right. Let’s have sex with your mother directly across the hall.”

Bender shrugged as best he could in his prone position. “Worked with your parents.” 

There was a distinct note of bashfulness in her retort, and he couldn’t help but grin. “…they weren’t across the hall; they were on a different floor. And you’re a pig.”

John chuckled into the bleached white cotton. 

'Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.' Bender was just about to roll over on his back once more and attempt to keep his damn eyes closed when the monitor above his head echoed a boisterous cry. An automatic response, he shot up in bed, muscle memory compelling him to drag his legs off the mattress before he remembered that his ma was supposed to be watching Dani. *She* was supposed to tend to whatever she needed. 

He hesitated—for a good fifteen seconds. When the wailing wasn’t soothed by the softly accented voice of his mother, John narrowed his eyes and, aggravated, began to throw the covers off the bed. 'Of fucking course'. 

Claire rested a calming hand on his bicep. “Wait.” 

John waited, even though every nerve-ending, every muscle, every frigging impulse in his body was screaming at him to go to his kid, to comfort her, to change her diaper or whatever she wanted. Wrapped amidst the quilt, John’s fingers twitched. 

Then, blessedly, a few more seconds later, Laura’s stage-whispered voice crackled through the speaker. “Tut-tut-tut! Oh, what’s wrong, sweetheart? You hungry? Let’s get ya a bottle. Your mama left some in the fridge, I think.”

Immediately, when Laura stepped outside of the nursery with Dani in her arms, John and Claire slammed back to the mattress and closed their eyes, pretending to be asleep. Upon his ma’s return, they performed the same song and dance as Laura cooed to Dani, “I hope your mama and daddy are sleepin’.”

He watched, one eye cracked open, whilst the shadow of his mother paused before the master bedroom, straining her eyes to peek in and ascertain that they were indeed sawing logs. After an obscenely long minute, she seemed to be satisfied, nodded once, and disappeared into the nursery. 

Only then did Bender and Claire dare to open their eyes and haltingly sit up in bed. “That was a close one,” he muttered, feeling weirdly like a teenager who’d just slipped back into his room after a night of partying. Which he’d done. Quite a few times. 

Claire guffawed underneath her breath, and John turned to regard her. “What?”

His princess was still giggling. “Are we really pretending to be asleep for your mother, who volunteered to watch Danielle tonight so that we can sleep?” 

There was a brief interlude, and then they both erupted in quiet laughter. “Shit,” John chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. “We’re parents.”

“We so are.” 

“Come on,” he said while dropping to the pillow once more. “Let’s try to get some *real* sleep.”

Claire concurred, curling closer to him and resting her head beside his. He could feel the warmth radiating from her body.

John pulled her closer, and they managed to get a few hours of genuine sleep that night.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Brian would totally have Darth Vader pajamas.
> 
> Note 2: As someone with a chronic illness, I've had people tell me everything from drinking only Motts apple juice for a week (only Motts, not any other kind of apple juice) sticking onions on my feet. To cure pneumonia. Oh and let us not forget the MLM hawkers from high school who I haven't spoken to in fifteen years slip into my DMs to try to convince me their crappy overpriced shakes and supplements will "cure" me.
> 
> Note 3: Ramen is delicious. 
> 
> Note 4: I'm thinking maybe Farrah Fawcett would be closer to the description of Laura I've set out. She was born in '47 so it could work. With less feathered hair.
> 
> Note 5: Random Brat Pack Fact: after that article came out, everyone mentioned turned up on Phil Donahue's show to defend themselves. Ah, the era before the internet. Nowadays, they could've just released an Instagram story of all of them just flipping the bird.


	34. Chapter 33: Jerk Out

Chapter 33: Jerk Out

'This is the best vacation ever,' Allison thought-squealed while she gazed out the window of the Skyhawk. They were on their way to Nome now, a place she’d wanted to visit since she was eight-years-old. It was well after the sun had gone down, so she couldn’t see much other than the silhouettes of the mountains and the current of the many lakes and rivers the plane sailed over. Oh, and the ceaseless flakes dropping from the heavens; they were caught in a nasty storm. The pilot, a jovial Russian guy, had assured them that he’d flown through weather like this and much worse over his twenty-plus year career. That was enough to placate Allison, who hadn’t been that worried in the first place, but not her husband. Andy sat in the seat beside hers, holding onto her hand for dear life and keeping his eyes firmly squeezed shut. 

It was actually pretty dang funny. When the Skyhawk rumbled through a patch of turbulence, Andy paled and gripped her fingers still tighter. 

Ally gazed aside at him. “You’re, eh, looking a bit green around the gills, Sporto.” 

“Good,” Andy groaned, lowering his head between his spread knees. “That means I’m still alive.”

Allison cackled and turned back to watch the in-flight movie. "Airplane!" She had to appreciate the irony. 

The small plane only had room for four passengers. Hence, other than Mr. and Mrs. Clark, the only other people in attendance were the pilot and an elderly couple bickering in Yiddish. A furry ushanka hat was perched on the portly husband’s head, and the wife looked a bit like Carol Kane from "Taxi". 

Their honeymoon had been a blast so far. Before returning to the Ice Princess, Charlie took them white water rafting near the Mendenhall Glacier. After Juneau, they remained at sea for another day and checked out the ship’s five-star seafood restaurant, dance club, and casino. Three days later, they were in Skagway, the last port of call. The couple spent two days there, riding the rails of the Yukon Route Railroad, touring one of the old Gold Rush trails on the Klondike and learning about the history of the Alaskan Gold Rush, lunching at the famous Red Onion Saloon, and going zip-lining. Andy had to be talked into the last; his fear of heights had him nearly peeing his pants up on the platform. 

Now, they were en route to Nome, and she couldn’t wait. 

“Al,” Andy pled while the Skyhawk shook through another spot of turbulence. “R—remind me again why we needed to take a flight out of Skagway at 10:30 at night?”

Allison’s shoulders bobbed beneath the huge black coat she wore. “It was either this or sleep overnight in the airport.”

Andy squeezed her fingers in one hand and curled his fist over the armrest with the other. “I think I would’ve preferred the airport.” 

Snorting in laughter, she passed her husband a bag of peanuts. Andy took a few with shaking fingers. 

From the cockpit up front, which was separated from the passenger seats only by a pane of glass, the pilot chuckled. “No vorries! Boris knows vhat he is doink! Sit back. Relax. Haf vodka.” 

Allison palmed one of the little bottles of Smirnoff Pilot Boris had handed out before the flight and passed it to Andy. He hesitated only briefly before knocking back the whole thing. 

In the wee hours of the morning, the small aircraft descended at the Nome Airport, a squat Spartan building populated mainly with Air Alaska biplanes. At this time of night, and in the middle of a storm, all of the planes were stagnant except theirs. 

Andy gritted his teeth until the wheels of the Skyhawk touched the ground. And even then, Allison had to wave a hand in front of his face to remind him that they weren’t in the air anymore. 

At the airport, after they retrieved their luggage, a man holding up a sign that read CLARK in bold letters waited at the entrance. Tipping his beige musher’s hat to them as they approached, he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Clark?”

Allison beamed. She’d never get tired being referred to as “Mrs. Clark”. 

Andy snaked an arm around her shoulders. “That’s us!” 

“Great,” the man said, pitching the piece of oak board in the trash. “I’m Harry. I work at the Aurora Inn. Here to give ya both a lift.” 

That was good. They wouldn’t have to spring for a taxi. 

'*Are* there taxis out here'?

Stepping outside the airport, bags clutched in their hands and hanging off their shoulders, she got her answer. 

Harry walked toward the back of the long wooden sled, straightening his musher’s hat and stepping on the foot boards. Gloved hands wrapping around the handle bar, he spoke over the eight barking Siberian huskies and malamutes. They were all beautiful, sleek and silver and white and red. And furry. Very furry. These had much more hair than the dogs they’d gone sledding with in Skagway. “Well. Get in!”

To her right, her new husband looked dubious. “Uh. I thought there was going to be, like, a car or a limo or something.” 

The musher blinked, then barked a laugh. “A limo?! You two’ve never been to Nome before, eh? Sorry, kids. We’re caught in the middle of 30 mile-per-hour gale force winds with three feet a’ snow on the ground. It’s either this or snow shoes.”

Allison and Andy traded looks. 

“’Sides,” Harry continued, his meaty shoulders bobbing beneath his enormous brown coat. “The Iditarod’s in a few weeks. Gotta get some practice in.” 

Ally shrugged and climbed beneath the layers of blankets and pelts into the cargo bed. Following a moment’s uncertainty, Andy sighed and clambered in beside his wife, tripping over some of the blankets and a cask of wine as he did so. Allison giggled, and, when her husband was settled, Harry passed them two pairs of goggles. 

“Should wear these. The ride’ll take about twenty-five minutes in this weather, and I’m sure neither of you guys wanna go snow-blind.” 

Once the goggles were secure over their faces, Harry yelled out “Mush!” and the dogs took off. 

Andy could be heard screaming for over half a mile. 

**  
Danielle wouldn’t take a nap.

It was Sunday, purportedly the “Day of Rest”, but, ahem, not for Miss Danielle Jane Bender. Or Miss Claire Standish, for that matter. Three months old now, Danielle was supposed to sleep at least three times a day according to Drs. Devers and Lipschitz. The baby books stated that she should be getting tired every few hours, but…not her baby. Whenever Claire tried to put her down, whether it be in the crib, her bouncy seat, or the playpen, Danielle would burst into tears until someone picked her up again. Claire had been popping Tylenol like Tic-Tacs all day. 

In the living room, John was in the midst of attempting to put the electric swing her dad had gotten Danielle for Christmas together. This was to be his sixth endeavor since the end of the 80s. Generally, her boyfriend took pride in being able to form anything with his hands, and John was good at putting stuff together without having to read the directions. The swing, however, still seemed to perplex him. 

Near a clear section of wall a few feet from the weird settee, John sat sprawled amid lots of white metal tubes and tools and nuts and bolts and whatever else the thing was packaged with. For three minutes, she and Laura watched him try to fit two pieces together, and, when that didn’t work, he chucked them both against the wall. 

Claire’s eyes rolled. “John. You’re going to break it.”

“Good,” he muttered, hands searching blindly for another part. “Then I’ll have an excuse *not* to have to put this piece of crap together.” 

Claire rested her hands on her hips. “John—“

“I mean,” he continued whilst throwing his hands in the air. Not like he just don’t care. “How do we even know this thing’s safe? Looks kinda circumspect to me.”

The seat was made of 100 percent steel and had cost her father a pretty penny. It was top of the line. 

“Just admit that you have no idea what you’re doing and use the directions,” she scoffed. 

John glowered up at her. “I will not! Directions are for amateurs. I can do this shit myself.” He gazed balefully at the only slightly completed swing. “Hear that? You will not beat me!” 

Jackie, who’d come over earlier taking a break from nursing a flu-ridden Brian, shook her head. “What is it with men never wanting to use the directions?” 

“Directions are for amateurs,” John repeated, grasping one of his Philips screwdrivers. “And women.” 

Claire lightly tapped what was finished of the swing, and the whole base tumbled to the floor. 

“GOD DAMNIT!” 

The Princess smirked and grabbed her house keys off the key hook. 

John was grumbling while he collected the individual pieces of the unfinished swing/pile of dreck. “Where are you goin’?”

Laura wrapped herself inside one of Claire’s ridiculously expensive coats. “Taking Danielle to the park for a walk.”

Jackie was strapping the baby in her carriage. John raised an eyebrow. “In this weather?”

“She’s bundled up,” Claire explained, placing a second blanket over Danielle’s torso. “She won’t sleep. It’s either this or I put on ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’ again.” 

Prone amidst the wreckage of the electrical swing, John cringed. “Ugh. Walkie-walkie. Please go. If I have to listen to that shit again, I may lose my mind.”

Jackie’s red lips stretched. “What do you mean 'may?'” 

John’s expression was flat. “Ha.”

Claire walked behind the carriage and grasped the handlebar in her gloved hands. As the three—well, four, including Danielle—slipped out the door, she heard John flip on the boombox, and the dulcet sounds of electric guitar and drums filled the apartment. 

“How are his eardrums not bleedin’ yet?” Laura mumbled whilst they trotted down the corridor. “He’s been listening to that same racket since he was thirteen.” 

Jackie glanced sideways at John’s mother. “And what did he listen to before that?”

“Mainly the Jackson 5. And the occasional rock ballad. When he was a kid, he used to love his grandfather’s big band music.”

Claire snickered imagining a pintsize John rocking out to “In the Mood”. 

In the past, Claire had taken Danielle to one of the big parks in the city—Jefferson or Millennium. But her feet already ached from running back and forth to the baby’s nursery and pacing to and fro, to and fro trying to get her to close her eyes. She’d played that damn song, which by turns seemed to energize and tire the baby out, seven times; today, it appeared to be doing the former. Thus, Claire had admitted defeat, swathed herself in one of her heaviest trench coats and a cashmere scarf, and rolled Danielle downstairs. 

Today, they were just circling the little corner park behind the building. Claire was too exhausted to make the usual trek downtown. 

“What is this place called again?” Jackie asked as they made their way outside.

Claire shrugged. “Too small to have a name. John calls it Hobo & Bird Shit Park.” 

Laura breathed a very John-like snort. “Sounds like my son.”

At the gated entrance to the little park beyond Housely, Claire discreetly stepped over a pile of goose poop—'Don’t they fly south for the winter? Ew'.—and rolled the carriage through a black tar-poured trail. There was barely enough room for Laura and Jackie to flank either side. To the left, swans bobbed on the surface of a small pond, and to the right, some very brave people were working out in shorts and tank tops in a field of clover. Claire shivered just looking at them. 

“Good lord,” Laura exclaimed while gawking at the group seemingly unaffected by the cold. “Do they not realize it’s dang near freezing out here?”

“You see some weird things in the city,” Jackie explained. “Last week, Bri and I watched a bunch of people with dyed blue and green hair protesting naked outside the Sears Tower. Still don’t know what, exactly, they were protesting.” 

Laura looked stricken. Claire snickered. 

In the carriage, Danielle was playing with Pinky Bear. But her eyes looked heavy, so that was a plus. 

They walked the winding trail cutting the park in two twice, hoping Claire’s stubborn infant would fall asleep already. It was as they were rounding the corner near the brightly-colored playground display, upon which children frolicked on equipment meant to look like a spaceship, that the carriage bumped into a foot. 

Instantly, Claire rolled the contraption back without glancing up to see whom she had nearly run over. “I’m sorry. Are you…?”

She trailed off when she gazed into the infuriatingly smirking face of Natalie McGinty. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes!” Claire cried, forgetting to curb her language in front of her offspring. 

“Hello to you, too.” Natalie crossed her arms over her puffer coat. 

“What are you doing here?! In all of Chicago, you wind up hanging out in the tiny park behind our very building.” Claire rolled her eyes. “Somehow, I doubt that is a coincidence.” 

The girl cocked her head. She had bleached her dark hair a sort of strawberry blonde color. One closer to Claire’s own hue. 'It’s so not working for her'. “Think what you want, Standish. Oh, is that the baby?” She bent over to peer into the carriage, and Claire felt the urge to close the top completely. “Huh. Looks like John. Good thing, too.”

The Princess seethed as Jackie and Laura glanced at each other beside her. 

“Hmm. No ring,” the bitch continued, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “My, my. Isn’t that telling?” 

Claire’s fingers formed a fist. 'Okay, that’s it.' 

There was a time to be the bigger person, and a time to revert to form. 

She slapped her. Hard across her cheek—so hard, the girl’s head snapped to the side, so hard, there remained a big red splotch marring her skin. Claire stepped forward while Natalie clutched her cheek in shock. Her smile was biting, razor-sharp. 

“Okay, listen to me, little girl,” she began in her best Princess of Chicago voice, gripping the collar of her coat. “You have no idea who you’re messing with. One word, just one word from me, and my father can make your skanky ass disappear. One. Word.” Natalie very audibly gulped, and Claire grinned as she continued. “You stay the hell away from me. The hell away from my baby. And especially stay the *hell* away from my boyfriend. Nod if you understand me.”

Speechless, Natalie bobbed her head vigorously. 

“Good.” Claire let go of her coat. “If I see you again, it won’t end well for you.”

The girl turned tail and scampered away. Claire gazed inside the carriage to find Danielle sleeping. 

“Who was that?” Laura wondered as they all walked out of the park. 

“Some former coworker at John’s office who can’t seem to accept ‘go away’ for an answer,” she replied. “She’s since been canned.” 

To her left, Jackie stared askance at her. “Um…can your dad really…do that?”

Claire shrugged. “I doubt it. But he can make her life a living hell financially. One word from me, and she loses everything but her underwear. If she wears any.” 

Laura and Jackie chuckled in tandem. “Dang. I better make sure I never ever piss you off!”

'That’s right. Don’t piss off Claire Standish. I will end you.' 

She smiled brightly upon entering the lobby.  
**  
Their room was gorgeous, Andy had to admit. 

So far, he was not as much a fan of Nome as he had been of Juneau and Skagway. The Ice Princess’ last port of call was about as Alaska as he was willing to get, aside from his dream of climbing Mount Huntington. Though it was the dead of winter, there hadn’t been much snow on the ground—in Alaska terms, anyway. That meant about eight inches, barely enough to require the use of sled dogs and certainly people still drove their cars. He and Ally had easily meandered through the town streets and had even been able to hike a bit. The sled was mostly an activity on their itinerary. 

Not so for Nome. It was quite a bit colder up here, and the snow was nearly four feet deep. Four. Feet. The ceaseless storm the two evenings before had added a good extra foot of the white stuff to the already cumbersome and difficult to travel through weather conditions. Seriously, most people up here, from October clear through to April (and sometimes beyond) either dragged out their old dog sleds or traveled via snowplow. The “iron dog”, as they were called here in Nome. 

Their room at the Aurora Inn was nice, though. It was a balcony suite that overlooked the stunning north Alaskan countryside. The sunsets up here were spectacular, like a painting. Not clogged with smog and pollution like they were back in Chicago. Decorated in altering hues of green, gold, and white, their room looked like something straight out of a winter edition of Good Housekeeping. There was a TV cozily nestled inside an aged armoire. Mosquito netting over the queen-size bed. Plush forest green carpeting. A huge claw-footed tub. That tub was so awesome, Andy would’ve been content to remain in there the entire remainder of their vacation. 

Ally was a different story. She wanted out as soon as possible. So, the morning after they landed, they greeted the dawn and hightailed it to the Carrie M. McLain Memorial Museum. Warm and inviting, the exhibition gathered all the historical documentation and memorabilia of Nome going back to the original Alaskan Gold Rush in the early 1900s when both Nome and Skagway were just frozen wastelands peppered with tents and the occasional hastily erected cabin to the Serum Race of 1925 to the formation of the Iditarod in the sixties and seventies. They took a dog sled there, obviously, headed by Harry, their guide for the day.

After that, they went bird watching (Andy snapped pictures of a few ravens and snow buntings), and then rented a boat for a fishing trip. Ally caught a huge catfish. The Aurora’s chef cooked it up for dinner that night.

The next day, they took a tour by helicopter; Andy had to be talked into that. There were less regulations for helicopters than airplanes. They didn’t even use a black box! But he was quickly enraptured by the awe-inspiring sights of the Bering Sea, the Bering Land Bridge National Preserve, and endless white landscape. Then, they checked out the White Alice site, a series of enormous mid-Cold War satellites. Ally got a kick out of them. 

On the third day, they retraced the path from Nome to Nenana that the Serum Race mushers and their dogs had taken—nearly 500 miles. Fortunately, they were able to do this by rail and not an actual sled. They had packed up their belongings, rented a cabin with a private bathroom, bed, and small TV, and watched the beautiful scenery go by. 

They stayed overnight in Nenana, then flew back down to Denali National Park. Though he’d always been terrified of heights, his childhood dream was to climb Mount Huntington, the highest point in the Alaska Range topping over 12,000 feet. He’d be going up with a guide but…still. As Andy gazed out at the precipitous mountain from an observation deck, its peak disappearing in a circle of clouds, he about pissed himself. He was seriously second guessing his choice of childhood dream. 

Andy gulped as he stared out the window. “Uh. I think I’ve changed my mind…”

The guide chuckled as if he expected this very reaction. Ally good-naturedly punched him in the shoulder. “This is your dream, Andy! Bite the bullet! Conquer your fear! Live for the moment! And all that stuff.”

He felt himself blanch a bit. “Will you be going, too?”

Allison scoffed and threw herself into a nearby lounge chair, sticking her booted feet on the ottoman. “Me? Please. This is *your* dream. Besides, I’m a klutz. Me on a mountain is just asking for sudden, horrendous death.” 

Andy had to concede that. She *was* kinda klutzy. 

Outside, amid the softly falling snow, Andy was dressed in his suit and gear, including a few harnesses, thick boots, and a huge pair of goggles. His guide gave him one more pep talk before leading him to the base of the mountain, fighting through the 19 inches of snow on the ground. 

His guide, a twenty-something dude with a lot of tattoos, nodded at him. “All right. We ready?”

Andy swallowed thickly. “As I’ll ever be, I guess.”

“It’ll be great!” the guy continued, slapping Andy’s shoulder and nearly sending him sprawling to the ground. “And you’ll have massive bragging rights. Not to mention cajones.” 

He nodded unseeingly and followed the guide up the start of the trail.

**  
Brian was not doing well. 

Two weeks after original contraction, he still had the gaul durn flu, and it didn’t appear to be going anywhere. He blamed both his mother and his weakened immune system.

Reaching for the white inhaler on his bedside table, Brian fed his tired lungs a good few pumps. He’d been coughing all day. And sneezing. He was going through tissues like they were about to be discontinued. At one point earlier in the day, he’d run out of his precious moisturizer-infused Kleenex and was forced to resort to one ply. One ply! His nose was so red, he could pass for Rudolph. 

'I bet it glows in the dark, too'. 

Jackie had been gone all day with Claire and Bender’s mother—Brian still couldn’t entirely believe that Bender even *had* a mother, despite his little playact in detention that day—after much hemming and hawing on her part. She hadn’t wanted to leave him to fend for himself. “Besides,” she’d added with a huff and a smirk. “The only thing you can cook is oatmeal.” 

“Not true,” Brian had coughed. Then, he shoved a Hot Pocket in the microwave. 

Jackie ended up leaving him a steaming pot of ramen chicken noodle. 

Soon, he was alone. Brian wasn’t complaining. Mercedes kept popping round uninvited to care for her “sweet baby” with Vicks and canned Campbell’s soup and lots of lectures beginning with “Okay, so this is what you have to do”. If it was grating on Brian, it aggravated Jackie, whose own theories on wellbeing clashed with Mercedes’. And Jackie was studying to be a pediatrician. Mercedes was a sometimes jazz musician. Cool, he supposed, but definitely not a medical profession. 

For one, his mother kept firmly shutting the windows Jackie cracked open. His girlfriend insisted that flu a room needed to be aired out periodically to rid itself of germs, and the fresh air was better for Brian’s scarred lungs (something he, as a budding doctor himself, agreed with). His mother, on the other hand, contended that all windows must be closed at all times. They also disagreed on which soup was better for him, homemade ramen chicken noodle or the canned kind. And Mercedes positively gasped at the Japanese family remedies Jackie used, passed down from her grandmother. Like rubbing his burning chest in with eucalyptus paste instead of Vicks. 

His mom had been in and out all day; he was about to change the locks. 

Jackie, too, had spent all weekend scurrying around worrying about him. He appreciated her concern, but she deserved some fresh air, too. Air that didn’t smell like Lysol and camphor. So, Brian told her to hang out with Claire today. And, in turn, he got some much-needed alone time. 

Still wearing his trusty Darth Vader pajamas, Brian inclined in bed and turned on the television. In the VCR, John Carpenter’s "The Thing" began playing. 

Halfway through the movie, he pulled himself off the overstuffed bed, threw away any errant tissues, and slogged into the kitchen area. Turning on the gas, he waited for the contents inside the huge silver pot to come to a boil. 

As he lingered, a knock sounded at the door. Brian huffed, then coughed. 'If it’s my mom again, I may jump out the window'. 

But when he opened the front door, Mercedes wasn’t standing there as expected but a slightly slumped-over Mr. Takahari. He was dressed today like a business man from the fifties in an olive drab suit and matching fedora. He looked tired, wan. The grooves beneath his eyes were almost as thick as Brian’s were. Even his usually carefully groomed goatee was thickening in patches. 

“Um,” Brian stuttered, unnecessarily glancing around. “J—Jackie’s not here, Mr. T—Takahari.” 

Mr. Takahari sighed. He sounded exhausted, something Brian wouldn’t generally associate with Jackie’s father. He always seemed so unbreakable. He was shorter than Brian, but he was still incredibly intimidated by him. “I was hoping to speak to you, Mr. Johnson. If I can come in?”

Brian blinked. That, definitely, he had not been expecting. Wordlessly, he stepped back to let the man into his apartment. 

Though he was still angry with him for his stunt with Mercedes, for almost keeping him out of his dream school, politesse bade Brian take the man’s coat and hang it up in the nearby closet. It had started to rain outside, and droplets continued to drip from the long trench coat. 

Mr. Takahari perched on the edge of his couch. His visage was a mite uncomfortable. 

Brian was experiencing more than mere discomfort; he felt downright awkward. He was still so angry with the man, not just for partnering up with his mother to keep him from Baltimore but, even more than that, he was indignant on Jackie’s behalf. His lady love had spent a good half hour crying in his arms over her father and the incessant pressure to be great he had placed on her weary shoulders practically from birth. He had listened to the pain, the enervation, the raw emotion in her voice as she let loose on her father. He admired her guts; Brian had never been able to stand up to his mother. 

But, at the same time, he felt like he wasn’t allowed to be angry. As though it wasn’t his business. Mr. Takahari’s actions had directly affected him, and still…the man was not his relation. A paradox, he fought with his ire at what he’d done and how he’d treated his girlfriend over the years and the echo of Mercedes in his head—'Stay out of it. It’s not your business. Never come between anyone else and their parents.'

Unknowing what to do, Brian shifted on his feet for a second, then darted into the kitchen to fetch Mr. Takahari a glass of orange juice. 

“Thank you,” the man mumbled as his fingers grasped the glass. He only mildly sipped at the contents. 

Brian cleared his throat. “So. Um. You w—wanted to sp—speak to me?” 

A muscle worked in Mr. Takahari’s jaw. The man didn’t appreciate having to kowtow, Brian knew this; it made him feel inferior. 

Since beginning to date Jackie, he’d studied the whims and mannerisms of her paterfamilias as though he were one of his text books. 

'If there’s ever a Jeopardy category on Mr. Takahari, I’ve got it in the bag.' 

Mr. Takahari cleared his throat. “Mr. Johnson, I once again would like to apologize for my actions. It was…unsporting of me. I realize now I may have had a hand in ruining your future, something I never wanted.” 

'Didn’t you, though?' Was that an unfair assessment? Brian absently patted his wayward hair. “It’s, um, okay, sir.” 

It was not, and it never would be. But at least he seemed to be trying, even if it was only for Jackie’s sake.

Mr. Takahari grunted and pushed himself off the couch. Facing toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back, he said in a low voice, “If only my daughter would accept my apology.”

Brian exhaled and tried not to cough. He’d had a feeling this had been where the sudden visit and conversation were headed. “W—well, sir. If I may. Er. I don’t th—think you’re apologizing for the right things.”

That made Mr. Takahari turn to regard him. Brian flinched, waiting for the reprimand, but Jackie’s father only cocked his head. “How so?”

He quelled his outbreath of relief. “Well. Um. J—jackie knows you’re, uh, sorry about…” Brian trailed off, waving vaguely to indicate the completely messed up stunt he’d pulled. “I think, um, she’s more upset that…you spent so, so much of her childhood just…worried about her grades. Making her feel like she wasn’t good enough. That she could never be good enough.” 

Brian’s tone had grown steadier, his stutter clearer, the more he spoke. Here, he was doing what good boyfriends were supposed to do. He was standing up for his girl. And parents dropping eve thickening stones of pressure atop their children’s shoulders was definitely something he knew a lot about. 

Mr. Takahari wrinkled his brow. “Then…why did she never say anything? Why is she angry now?”

Brian’s skinny shoulders bobbed beneath the cotton Darth Vader pajamas. “Honestly? I, um, think this was just the last straw. She was always af—afraid to disappoint you, um, sir. B—but now, you’ve disappointed *her*.” 

To this, Mr. Takahari had nothing to say. 

Brian cleared his phlegmy throat. “I would suggest, er, that you t—tell her you’re proud of her no matter what she does. And, um, address the real elephant in the room.” 

The man stared into his face, into his eyes, long enough for Brian to shift in disquiet. Mr. Takahari had a very intense stare, one that could melt icicles. Sylvia sometimes joked that he should’ve gone into law enforcement. “He’d make a great bad cop!” 

When he slowly nodded, Brian finally let his ramrod posture relax. 

Mr. Takahari approached him and stuck out a hand. With only a brief hesitation, Brian took it. “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Johnson. I will speak to my daughter…but not yet. I will give her the space she craves.”

Brian could only smile nervously in agreement. 

Mr. Takahari patted his shoulder, grabbed his damp coat, and slinked out of the apartment.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I love Carol Kane. She was great in Kimmy Schmidt. If you have Prime, check out her latest, Hunters. She's part of a band of Holocaust survivors who hunt down Nazis in 1977 NYC. It's violent and kooky.
> 
> Note 2: Every location mentioned in this chapter is an actual place in Skagway and Nome, including the Aurora Inn.
> 
> Note 3: Though after the snowplow was invented (the "iron dog") a lot of Alaskans abandoned their sled dogs (the poor things) the emergence of the Iditarod in midcentury brought sled dog culture back to northern Alaska. Today you will still see mushers racing teams of dogs during winter up there amid people driving Toyotas and crap.
> 
> Note 4: There is a Hobo & Bird Shit Park on the corner of my street. That is what all the neighborhood kids called it. 
> 
> Note 5: Two reviewers asked me if Claire was ever going to layeth the smacketh down on Natalie. Here ya go!
> 
> Note 6: I swear I started writing this before the outbreak. I know if it had been taking place now, Mercedes would be absolutely sure Brian had the coronavirus.


	35. Chapter 34: Babywatch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Hope you're staying safe from the beervirus. I am immunocompromised so I've been given a few weeks off work (by "given" I mean my boss literally told me to GTFO) because they are afraid I'll contact it and they'll get sued lolol. So I am just sitting here watching ALL the TV. I've got a Married With Children rerun on the smart TV right now, and Netflix is paused on some crazy true crime doc about tiger people.
> 
> Anyway, this one's a little longer (17 pages) to wile away the dull hours.

Chapter 34: Babywatch

“Fine! You win! For today. But—“ John adopted a thick Austrian accent as he glared at the uncompleted crap pile. “—I’ll be back.” 

Frustrated, Bender gazed around for something new to hurl at the wall. Hammer—no, that’d go right through, and if it didn’t, he did not want to risk it hitting Dani, who was playing with her blocks in a corner after she’d returned from her park nap. Some arbitrary part of the swing—no, Claire was right; he’d just end up breaking the thing. His can of beer—well, that was just a waste of perfectly good beer. John slammed his back to the floor, glowering at the thing and muttering angrily beneath his breath. Hands rooting around his prone frame, he eventually settled on Dani’s yellow foam ball. Viciously, he hurled it against the wall, catching it just before it managed to smack him in the eye. 

Continuing to bounce the ball against the wall, he turned his head to watch the kid. She was already sitting up herself, he couldn’t fucking believe it. According to Dr. Devers, babies usually started to pull themselves into a seated position by four to seven months, and she was barely three and a half. 

'Maybe she’ll be an Olympic gymnast and buy me and Claire a huge house in Malibu. And maybe a Jag.' 

Not that Claire would require their kid to make zillions in order to afford a Jag. 

Catching the ball one more time, John let it roll to the barely assembled piece of crap and sat up. Dani was burbling baby talk that only she seemed to understand. One hand was fisted in her mouth while the other clutched a plastic block and waved it around. John breathed a laugh watching her. She was quite intent on both the block and the fist, a little wrinkle of concentration appearing between her toffee-colored eyes. Taking her hand out of that adorable rosebud mouth, she focused all her energy on…he didn’t exactly know. Lining the blocks side by side? Banging two of them together? 

'In her head, she’s smashing her ‘Vette.' 

And running Nora over with it. 

On his hands and knees now, John crawled over to where she sat, gurgling incomprehensively. For a minute, he just watched her, how her tiny fingers curled around the dulled edges of the blocks. Her chubby legs poking out of her white onesie. The shoots of red hair growing in. She really was the perfect physical product of the two of them. 

As for whether Dani would take after him or Claire, he’d find out soon enough. She already knew how to rock out, though. She twirled her arms and legs in glee when the metal mobile was on. 

Chuckling through his nose again, Bender folded his jeans-clad legs beneath himself. This captured Dani’s attention, and she blinked up at him, grinned gummily, then handed him a block. 

John glowed. He could feel the doofy smile stretching his lips. She wanted to play! And with him!

He doubted his own old man had ever played blocks with him as a baby. 

“Thank you,” he said, placing the red block a few inches in front of him. 

Dani passed him another block, this one blue, without prompt. 

“Thanks,” he added, resting this one on top of the red. 

The kid gave him another block.

“Much obliged,” John continued. The green block was perched atop the blue. 

Dani made a sound like a pterodactyl and crashed two pink blocks against each other. 

John chuckled and scooted closer to her. “You know what the most fun part is about blocks, don’t you?” 

The kid stared up at him like she was truly waiting for an answer. 

“Knocking ‘em down!” And, with that, he swept his arm against the little tower of blocks, sending them bouncing harmlessly to the carpet. 

Dani blinked and grinned. Haltingly, as babies were wont, she piled three multicolored blocks one on top of the other just as he had done, then, with a little shriek, sent them crashing to the floor. 

Her toothless mouth formed a delighted O. 

John’s ensuing laugh was belly-deep. Hastily stacking towers with the remaining blocks, he then hauled Dani to her little baby feet, holding her arms for balance, and walked her between his legs toward the plastic block city. 

“ARG!” he bellowed while Dani giggled delightedly. “Danzilla!” 

SMASH went one tower. 

“Look, look! The creature is attacking the city!” John cried in a sort of pseudo (and very bad) Japanese accent. By turns pitching his voice a couple of octaves and dropping it, John continued the game by pretending to be Block City’s townspeople. “Oh my God, no!” “She’s adorable and petrifying!” “What will we DO?!”

CRASH went another. 

After beating her small fists against her chest—'King Kong and not Godzilla but who was counting?'—John mock-roared again and Dani’s arm shot out to knock over another tower. She was giggling madly, and the sound made his heart melt. 

All the towers again colorful little boxes littering the carpet, he picked Dani up in his arms and blew a raspberry on her stomach. She smiled wide and screeched, and he did it again. 

'Babies can be fun. Who knew?'

Afterward, he lowered Dani into her playpen. The kid gazed up at him with those big light brown eyes of hers—and his—grinned, and raised over her head a cotton rattle in the shape of a chicken to show him. A chicken that had swallowed a donut, anyway. 

John snickered and, shrugging, climbed into the playpen to sit down Indian style beside her. Gazing at the side of her head as she scrambled through her toys, he casually asked, “So. Now what do you wanna do?”

Dani palmed a plastic orange mallet and proceeded to beat the shit out of her toy xylophone. 

Bender winced with every BONG. 

“Yeah,” he drawled, cringing. “Hopefully, you get more musically inclined, kid.” 

Five minutes later, his name was being called, his eyes shot open, and he smacked his head against a Fisher-Price telephone. Rising, he realized that he’d fallen asleep, and what had felt like five minutes was actually forty-five. 

When John swiveled his head to the side and didn’t see Dani, he almost had a fucking heart attack. Until he gazed up at Claire’s face that looked none too pleased. In one arm, she grasped the kid and in the other, bags and bags and fucking bags of shopping. 

“John, what the hell? You were supposed to be watching her!”

Over Claire’s shoulder, his ma innocently looked up at the ceiling. 

“I was,” he insisted, automatically defensive. “We attacked a block city.”

He gestured widely to the chaos of colored boxes in the middle of the room, most dotting the floor and a few still precariously stacked one on top of the other. 

Claire followed his wave, glanced at the mess, then back to him with one red eyebrow quirked. “You still fell asleep in her playpen.” A beat. “*Why* were you in her playpen?” 

Bender shrugged. “We were playing xylophone.” 

His girlfriend shook her head. “I need to give her a bath. If you want to continue your nap, Danielle has a few extra pacifiers.” 

John scowled. His ma burst out laughing.  
**  
A week later, and Laura was still at Housely. 

When the weekend was up, John’s mother had shrugged on her thin jacket, carrying a small bag of things Claire had given her—a few toiletries and cosmetics, a bit of non-perishable food, some clothing—and was all set to return to Shermer. But neither Claire nor John could bear sending her back to his old man, not just yet, not at all, if possible, so, just before she was about to leave, Claire suggested that she remain a few more days. 

Laura Bender looked relieved, though she tried to hide it behind a mask of uncertainty. 

Later, in the privacy of their own bedroom, John asked Claire what they were going to do with his ma, how they—well, she—was planning to keep her from returning to his father. Claire just sighed and buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know. But the thought of sending her back to that monster makes me physically ill.” 

She wasn’t alone in that. He could feel the old rising panic that occurred whenever he, as a kid, had left Laura alone with Jake. Or the deeply depressed feeling he harbored when he left her behind after leaving Shermer. 

Monday through Thursday went well. Everything was as copacetic as could be in John’s world. He went to sleep at eleven and faithfully woke up at six thirty for work. With his ma sleeping in the nursery and helping out, he and Claire actually managed to get some decent sleep that week. She rose to feed Dani every two hours. He stopped in every now and again to check up on her. But, otherwise, Laura looked after the kid at night so that they could get some sleep. His ma seemed to love having a baby around to take care of again.

“But she ain’t mine, so I can spoil her rotten and leave the disciplining to y’all!” 

Friday came, and all hell broke loose. 

A half an hour after he rose from bed, still dripping from his shower, the crazy-looking telephone in the corner rang. Nonchalant, John walked through the living room while Claire fed Dani and picked up the old-timey receiver. “Yeah?”

There was a distinct pause on the other end; John could hear uncomfortable breathing. “Mr. Bender, sir?”

John cringed. He always felt weird when Olivier insisted on calling him “sir”. Like he was Dick or something. “What’s up, Olivier?” 

The maître ‘d cleared his throat. “Er, there is a man here who is demanding to come up to your apartment.”

And, for some reason, John still had not put two and two together. Maybe because it was 7 AM and he hadn’t had his coffee yet. Maybe due to his worry over Dani, who was up and down all night with a runny nose. Either way, John just rolled his eyes and said, “Uh, okay? Make him go away. It’s too damn early for that nonsense.” 

Another brief gap of silence. Bender was growing annoyed. He really needed that cup of coffee if he was going to make it through the workday. “Er, Mr. Bender. The man says he is your father.”

And all thoughts of coffee and work vanished from John’s mind. His grip on the phone loosened as his palms began to moisten. He felt his skin pale, noticed the room going topsy-turvy, and he suddenly wanted to puke. Slowly lowering himself to a seated position on the couch, John swallowed harshly, audibly. 

In the chair beside him, Claire glanced up from feeding Dani, her brow furrowed. “What’s going on?” she mouthed, worry and confusion in her eyes.

John didn’t answer her and instead spoke directly to Olivier. “Don’t…don’t send him the fuck up, Olivier. Please.”

Now, Claire really looked concerned. 

On the other end, he heard the maître ‘d’s muffled, French-accented voice primly telling his father that he was not permitted upstairs. “I am sorry, Monsieur, but you are not granted access to 1907.”

There was a beat, and Jake Bender exploded. 

“What the fuck do you mean I ain’t been ‘granted access’?! That’s my boy up there! And my *wife!*”

In the receiver, Olivier’s slightly tinny voice now sounded more nervous. “Sir, I cannot permit you past this lobby without express permission from the renters of the apartment you seek to enter. You are not on the approved visitors list, so I cannot let you up.”

“Fuck this shit. I’m goin’ up!”

There was the sound of a scuffle, and the rumblings of the two Bruce Willises echoed over the line. John could picture the scene downstairs in his mind’s eye. The twin bald-headed “doormen” with their meaty hands clamped around Jake Bender’s forearms, or perhaps standing before him refusing to let him move while his old man shouted and slurred, demanding to be let past. 

“Monsieur, if you would just calm down—“ 

“Calm down? Calm down?! My wife ain’t been home in a week, and I know she’s up there. Johnny! You send her ass home right now or I swear on all that is holy—“ 

If anything, John’s skin blanched further, his hands going clammier. It was the same echo he’d heard in his head over and over and fucking over again for years—“Johnny! Get down ‘ere and clean up this mess or I’ll tan your damn hide!” “Johnny! Boy, you best not have spilled that paint! Get over ‘ere right the hell now.” “Johnny! Did you fuckin’ drink my beer, you little shit?!” 

Claire reached over and lay a gentle hand on his bicep. He turned to look at her, wildly and vehemently. He knew his eyes were the size of fucking flying saucers right now. 

'I can’t let that bastard up here.'

Fuck no. Not with Claire and his ma and his GD *baby* under his protection.

“Sir,” Olivier continued in a more put-together tone. His father was still ranting and raving in the background. “If you do not calm down, I will have to call the police.”

Wouldn’t be the first time John’s old man would be escorted outside in handcuffs. 

“Call ‘em! And you tell ‘em that my wife is up there! My son’s hiding my wife! She’s been fucking kidnapped! And you assholes won’t let me up!”

'Kidnapped, my ass. She came here to get away from you, old man.' 

John splayed his hand over his face. Claire’s gentle grip on his upper arm tightened. 

Olivier sighed into the receiver. “Mr. Bender, my apologies. I will have this man ushered from the premises.”

'Ha. I’m used to this bullshit.' It had been a long time, a good few years, since he’d heard or witnessed his delightful dad being thrown out of somewhere. 

'Talk about your blast from the past. Jesus.'

John’s loose hold on the phone strengthened. “It’s all right, Olivier. And, um, thanks.”

With that, he hung up. Claire gazed at him softly, expectantly. Even Dani, drinking from her bottle, looked concerned. Perhaps she could sense her parents’ unease. Or something. 

“What happened?” his princess asked, her tone delicate. 

John rose from the couch, exhaled, and ran a comforting hand over Dani’s head. She closed her eyes. “Dear old Dad was downstairs.”

Claire looked as though she had been expecting that answer, but her already ivory skin still went the color of curdled milk. She held Dani tighter to her chest. “Your father?! Oh, my God! What the hell did he want?”

Bender scoffed and flicked his hair from his eyes. “Exactly what you figure. Wanted to come up. He was outraged when I told Olivier to tell him to piss off. He’s been telling himself I kidnapped Ma.” 

His redheaded princess blinked owlishly. “Kidnapped? She’s here willingly!”

“Yeah, my old man’s infamous for twisting shit until it works for him.”

Claire sighed and adjusted Dani in her light blue shoulder sling. “So…what does that mean? Is he going to call the cops on us or something?”

John snorted. “Yeah, right. Even if he does call, every precinct in the Greater Chicago Area knows not to believe a word he says. He’s been arrested so many times, no one buys what he’s sellin’. Old man’s like the boy who cried wolf. Only there’s never a wolf.”

His girlfriend’s pillowy lips flickered at the corners. In the sling, Dani was slurping the remains of the bottle. “Should we tell your mom?”

Bender opened his mouth to respond in the negative—his ma was trying to stay on the straight and narrow; the last thing she needed was a blaring dose of reality curtesy of her husband—when the woman herself emerged into the living room from the hallway. She wore the clothes she had arrived in, a pair of light-wash jeans and a fuzzy pink sweater. 

“Tell me what?” Laura asked, brushing her blonde curls back from her forehead.

Claire glanced at John. He flattened his lips and avoided his ma’s eyes. 

Laura Bender crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s up?”

John hesitated another few seconds before sighing. “Dad was downstairs.”

His ma’s blue eyes widened. “Wh—what?” 

He nodded once. “Yep. Demanded to be let up here. Luckily, there were people in the lobby this time, and they told him to amscray.” 

Laura swallowed, her throat bobbing up and down. “And, um, did…did you tell them he wasn’t allowed up here?”

John bristled. “Of course I did! I wasn’t gonna let that piece of shit up here. Not with Claire and Dani and…you.”

His mother drew circles in the carpet with the toe of her white sneaker. “Why’d he want to come up here?” she queried in a small voice. 

Claire answered for him. Which was good because his tongue had just grown thick in his mouth. “To see you. Or, you know, bring you home. I mean, back to Shermer.”

Back to the Shitville he’d lived in for eighteen years. Back to Kenny’s Cove Road, on which there was no cove, he had no idea who the fuck Kenny was and never had (not that he cared enough to find out), the potholes were enormous, and his old house was the rotten tooth in a mouth of perfectly livable if small row houses. The one whose lawn was patchy and yellowed with age, whose windows were often mended carelessly with garbage bags and bits of tape, whose garage was overflowing with rotten boxes and ancient newspapers. His old man was a bit of a “packrat”. According to Jake, anyway. To John, he just hoarded useless bullshit. 

Bender winced picturing that place. 

“He’s been telling himself I ‘kidnapped’ you,” John derided, rolling his eyes. “The old fool’s still delusional, I see.” 

Laura’s eyes broadened all the more, she shifted from foot to foot jerkily, then darted for her thin jacket hanging on the hook. “Oh, I’m sorry. I sh—should go. Back home, I mean. I need to go back home.”

Claire gazed up at him, obviously alarmed, while she patted Dani’s back. John approached his mother. “Ma, you don’t need to do anything—“

“Gotta go,” Laura muttered, interrupting him. “He’s expecting me. He wants me to come home. I never should’a come here…”

John palmed his mother’s pointed elbows, bending down to meet her wild-eyed gaze. “Ma. You don’t have to go. All right? It’s not your fault that Dad is fucking nuts.” Laura bit her lip, outwardly still doubtful, and Bender swallowed past the ball of weak distaste that appeared in his throat whenever he had to use this word. “Ma. Please.” 

Following a beat, Laura smiled and patted his cheek. “Okay.”

John felt the breath expel from his lungs. He didn’t know how he’d leave his ma alone with that piece of human excrement he called a father all over again. He didn’t know how he was going to deal. Because doing so the first time had damn near wrecked him.  
** 

Later that evening, Danielle still wouldn’t sleep. Much like last week, when she stubbornly refused to go down for a nap, Claire picked her up out of her crib, walked her through the apartment, rubbed her back in small circles, and played that damn song over and over again. She tried feeding her, settling herself in the rocking chair John had carved for her, but even the warm breastmilk wouldn’t calm her baby. 

In the living room again, now after 1 in the morning, Claire traipsed back and forth, back and forth, bouncing her crying infant and murmuring nonsense in her little ear. Laura stood behind Claire’s shoulder, waving her dragon toy around and whistling.

Danielle continued to howl. Laura gave up and clutched her granddaughter’s tiny curled fist between two fingers. “I wonder what’s wrong. Maybe she’s colicky?”

Claire continued to rub Danielle’s back, bounce her in her arms. Up, down. Up, down. “I don’t know. I’ve been avoiding all the foods the baby books suggested…”

“Should we wake Johnny up?”

Wincing, Claire gazed down at the top of Danielle’s red head. She was reluctant to rouse John. He was finally sleeping peacefully (if loudly—the deeper his REM cycles, the louder the snores) when he hadn’t much the night before. She gazed down the corridor, down to the closed door of the master bedroom where she knew John was slumbering away. 

Claire gnawed on her lip. And smoothed a hand down Danielle’s head. “Oh. I’d hate to disturb him. He’s starting the Junior Foreman position on Monday…” 

Now that Danielle was almost four months old, her boyfriend felt comfortable leaving his old position behind for someone else to claim and begin his tenure as Junior Foreman. It did mean that he’d possibly work weekends when he never had before, taking him away from her and Danielle, but he’d brokered a deal with Big Bill that still entitled him to the position and a financial promotion, though with a yearly pay-cut of a grand. Which meant that he’d be making 25K a year instead of 26. He’d work Saturdays with a yearly hours decrease. 

Luckily, Big Bill liked him and so agreed. 

Claire’s own maternity break would end in a few months, and then she’d need to look for a teaching position. 

John required all the physical and mental fortitude he could get in order to properly do his job. 

Laura stepped around her and raked a gentle, comforting hand down Danielle’s neck and back. The soft smile about her face abruptly vanished, a wrinkle appearing between her eyes. 

Claire frowned. “What is it?”

John’s mom didn’t answer at first. Instead, she rested the palm of her hand against Danielle’s neck. A good thirty seconds passed before she removed the appendage and placed it on her forehead instead. “Claire, honey, I think she feels warm.”

A sudden chill gripping her, the Princess, too, lay the flat of her hand against the child’s forehead. Then the side of her neck. And her chubby arms. Panic growing by the second. 

“Oh, my God,” she murmured. Her hand was still flat upon a shrieking Danielle’s reddened forehead. 

Turning, Claire jogged down the hall as quickly as her bare feet would carry her while clutching a yowling, and possibly feverish, infant. She banged open the door to the bedroom, hearing the knob bounce against the wall with a raucous thwack. John continued snoring. 

She raced to the side of the bed and called his name. Once. Twice. Three times. Laura materialized in the doorjamb, shaking her head. “I remember he’s usually a lighter sleeper…”

'That’s because his asshole of a father was always around.' He had to be more vigilant at home—'No, back in Shermer; this is his home now'—but, these days, he tended to sleep more soundly. A relief, for certain. 

Huffing, Claire curled a hand around his bicep and shook him. She hated having to wake him like this because his father used to drag him out of bed in the middle of the night, and John would often shoot up in bed panicked, but if Danielle was sick, she had no choice. 

John’s eyes shot open. “Wha…? What’s happening? Is the alarm clock broken again?”

Their last clock failed to ring after John hurled it against a wall. Now they had one in the shape of Garfield’s head. Every morning at 6:30 without fail, it crowed WAKE UP. TIME TO WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD. She loathed that thing. 

Claire shook her head. “No. John, I think Danielle has a fever. Does she feel warm to you?”

Blinking, her boyfriend sat up, concerned, and rested a palm against Danielle’s forehead. “Uh. I don’t know, I can’t tell…” 

Rising, he clambered out of bed, brushed past Laura in the threshold, and disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he was holding a small thermometer. “Baby thermometer, right?”

Claire nodded, grasped the device with a worried smile, and moved it toward Danielle’s puckered mouth. 

Laura stepped further into the room. “Naw, no baby will sit still long enough. You gotta stick it in the other end.” And she began undoing the snap buttons of Danielle’s pajamas. 

John furrowed his brow. “’Other end?’” 

Claire clutched her now naked baby while Laura eased the thermometer inside her “other end”. John nodded with understanding. “Ah. ‘Other end’.” 

The thermometer beeped after a minute, and Laura pulled it out. The baby’s wails increased. 

“Well?” Claire asked, gnawing on her bottom lip. 

Laura exhaled. “Well. It’s a bit higher than normal…” 

Claire’s stomach dropped. John impatiently grabbed the device out of his mother’s hand and perused the results himself. “Says here 99.9.”

Near 100 degrees. That wasn’t bad for a fully grown adult, or even a teenager, but a baby?!

She lay a hand across Danielle’s puckered forehead, the warmth seeping into the skin of her palm. How had she not felt it before? If Laura hadn’t been here, her baby’s fever may have gone unnoticed. For a night? The whole next day? 

What kind of mother was she to fail to notice that her child was ill?

John glanced at the Garfield alarm clock. “Um. Should we call the doc?”

“It’s 1:30 in the morning,” Claire replied. “I doubt he’s even awake.” 

“You have his private number, right? Give him a call, see what happens.”

The Princess’ innate propriety fought with her concern for the welfare of her child. The little voice in her head—which sounded like her old cotillion teacher, Mrs. Winshaw—needled that disturbing a man at this obscene hour was the height of rudeness. On the other hand…this was her child. And said man was her doctor. 

Claire grabbed the cordless off the bedside table and pressed the number 5 button. She had Dr. Devers on speed dial. 

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four…

She was about to give up and slam the phone down when the receiver clicked and a strained, tired voice echoed down the line. “’lo? Uh, I mean, Devers residence.” 

Claire sighed in relief. “Dr. Devers? It’s Claire. I’m so sorry to be calling this late, but I wasn’t sure what else to do…” 

There was the sound of fabric on fabric as Dr. Devers sat up in bed. “Claire? What’s wrong? Is Danielle okay?”

She shook her head as though he could see her. “I don’t know. She has a nearly 100-degree fever. Wh—what do you think I should do?”

“Get her to the hospital right away. There’s a flu bug going around that’s especially affecting children and babies.”

Claire didn’t need to be told twice. 

After she and John stumbled to the closet and threw on the first articles of clothing they touched—a pair of forest green sweats and a Ramones t-shirt for him, black stirrup leggings and the gray 'Flashdance' sweatshirt for her—Claire quickly dressed Danielle in something weather-appropriate, dug out her carrier, and buckled the screaming infant in. Meanwhile, in the other room, John was hurriedly packing her diaper bag. Claire’s head was pounding and her heart was racing, so she ran into the bathroom and popped some Tylenol. 

Laura jogged into the living room as they were pulling on their coats. “Is…is there anything I can do? Want me to call someone?”

John shook his head. He seemed to be barely listening to his mother. “Just stay here and wait for us to call you, Ma.” 

“You sure you don’t need me to come with y’all?”

This time, Claire’s head swished side to side. “Thanks, Laura, but we’ll be fine. They usually let only parents around, anyway.”

They darted out the front door at the same time, catching themselves in the threshold. Claire stepped back and waved John through first, then quickly followed. The baby’s carrier bumped against her hip as she jogged to keep up with him. Danielle yowled at her side, her perfect face smooshed and red and little rivers of salty tears tracking down her chubby cheeks. Claire lay a comforting hand atop Danielle’s head, over the pink felt hat she wore. 

In the elevator, John stood with one hand in the pocket of his sweatpants and the other flexing and unflexing at his side. He looked agitated and exhausted, pale and wan, stooped over. She considered that she probably resembled an extra in 'Dawn of the Dead', too. 

'And we’re not even at the mall.'

Claire blinked. She was a tired, nervous wreck, and she had no idea what she was doing.

John located the Audi in the parking garage—rather easy to miss among the other sleek BMWs and Jaguars and Bentleys—and fumbled to insert the key in the lock, his wrist shaking. Claire rested a calming hand on his arm and pressed the black key fob, causing the headlights to flicker and the doors to unlock. His lips perked gratefully and he climbed in while Claire buckled the carrier in place. Then, she clambered in beside her overtired, wailing baby. 

“Shhh,” she soothed whilst John drove the Audi out of the parking garage. “It’s okay, Danielle. Mommy and Daddy are going to get you some help, okay?”

Danielle continued to cry. In the driver’s seat, John didn’t even fiddle with the radio; simply, he flicked off Belinda Carlisle and sat in darkened silence. The only sounds were the screaming of the baby and the whoosh-whoosh of the windshield wipers as they briskly cleared the windshield of fresh snow flurries. Though it was close to April—and technically spring—Chicago was in the midst of one of the worst blizzards they’d seen all year thus far. There were already seventeen inches of snow on the ground, and it was so cold that waves of ice kept washing up on the shores of Lake Michigan. She’d seen the footage on CNN earlier. 

They drove to the nearest hospital, Holy Cross on W. Washington near the Chicago City Hall. Once the Audi was parked, John and Claire burst into the emergency room, shouting that their baby had a fever and needed help. They were directed to the waiting area, where they were first checked in and then surrendered Danielle for an initial cursory checkup by the pediatrician on call. 

“What do you mean ‘it’s not an emergency’?!” John raged once the doctor revealed their daughter’s prognosis. “She’s not even four months old yet, and she has a fever!” 

Claire wrapped both hands around his upper arm. Her boyfriend looked about ready to explode. Or possibly throw something, perhaps at the doctor himself. John was quite red in the face, his skin taut over his muscles to the point where his veins bulged in his neck and hands. Audible puffs of breath gusted out of his nose, and his fists were clenched tightly at his sides. He appeared about two minutes from an embolism. 

He was scared. And when John was scared, he became very, very angry. 

The doctor, just a kid not much older than they were, gulped. He was a scrawny thing in a white lab coat. John had him by at least half a foot. “S—sir, please. If you would j—just sit down, someone will see to your daughter s—soon.” 

John made his grand exit by pushing a nearby iron shelf of baby wipes and diapers to the floor. Claire winced with the boisterous clang. 

An hour later, they were still in the waiting area, slumped in the cold gray chairs, barely managing to keep their eyes open. Claire, in turn, bounced a sobbing and uncomfortable Danielle on her lap and lay her in the carrier at her feet, rocking it with the heel of her shoe. Danielle slept off and on, but, for the most part, the fever kept her awake and howling. 

Not even the name Standish worked in their favor in the ER at nearly 3 AM. And boy, had she tried. 

Drained, Claire dropped her head on John’s broad shoulder beside her. Wordlessly, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer. Her cheek rested near his heart.

Two parents, both tired and terrified, with their ill baby shrieking at their feet. They were in this together tonight. 

Finally, finally, at 3:25, another lab coated doctor walked into the waiting area with a clipboard. “Danielle Bender?”

Both Claire and John perked up, and Claire reached down to grasp the handle of the baby carrier. Sluggish, they followed the pediatrician into her office. In Claire’s exhaustion, she noted that the doctor was oddly well-dressed in a pair of black wide-legged slacks, a silk tie-front blouse, and a pair of fashionable black glasses perched on her nose.

'That’s a nice top.' Then—'I can’t believe I’m thinking of fashion at a moment like this. I must be going nuts'. 

John would *definitely* tell her she was going nuts if he were privy to her thoughts.

Claire perched Danielle’s carrier on the rice paper-covered examination table. This was a pediatrician’s exam room, so the walls were papered in a pattern of colorful dancing hippos. The examination table itself was painted a fire engine red, and the linoleum floor tiles were blue and green checked. Taped to the walls were pictures the doctor’s young patients had sketched—an elephant with a too big head, a stick person version of the doctor and a little blonde girl, a surprisingly detailed depiction of a basset hound. 

On the table, her baby continued her ceaseless crying. Claire dug inside the quilted baby bag for Pinky Bear, shook the plush toy twice, then passed it to Danielle, who clutched it loosely in her tiny arms. The bear seemed to calm her a bit. 

'Thank God'. Claire ran a calming hand over Danielle’s red head.

The doctor, whose nametag red Dr. Silver, snapped on a pair of white medical gloves. “Okay, what seems to be the trouble?”

John looked annoyed that he even had to explain this to the doctor. “Our daughter is sick.”

Dr. Silver stood up from her seat and approached the examination table. “Fever? Sore throat? Stuffy nose?”

Claire traded glances with her irate boyfriend. She could feel the water steadily rising, closing over her head. “She has a fever. Um, I don’t know about her throat. She’s been sniffling, too.”

The pediatrician nodded, stepped toward Danielle with a smile, and placed both fingers on either side of her neck, massaging her throat. Then, without a word other than a “Hmm”, she plucked an oversize q-tip from a cup on her desk and eased it into the back of Danielle’s throat. 

The infant cried harder when it was removed. Claire kissed her above the ear. 

A stony façade washed over John’s face. “Hey! What do you think you’re—“ 

“Had to check if there was any pus on her esophagus,” Dr. Silver explained with a patient smile. She disposed of the soiled q-tip in the nearby wastebasket. “There isn’t any, and her throat’s not red, so that’s good. Mom, if you could get her undressed so I can weigh her…” 

Claire nodded, barely blinking at being addressed as “Mom”, unbuckled Danielle, and began undoing the buttons on the back of her long johns. The baby now only wearing a fresh diaper, she gently placed her inside the baby scale. Dr. Silver fiddled with the knobs. 

“16.8 pounds,” the pediatrician announced, an amused lilt to her voice. “A bit over the average for her age, but not crazy or anything. She seems to be eating well.” Pulling an electrical thermometer from an overhead cabinet, Dr. Silver turned it on and dragged it across Danielle’s forehead. “Hmm. 100 degrees. Danielle may have a touch of that flu bug going around, though I’ve seen worse cases than this. I am going to write you a prescription, fill it out in the pharmacy downstairs. I also want her to drink PediaLife milk, it’s a kind of formula specifically for sick babies. Give it to her four times a day for the next five days. You can find PediaLife at most convenience stores.”

The pediatrician scratched out the prescription in patented doctors’ scrawl, and they slugged downstairs to the pharmacy to get it filled out. Claire was nearly dead on her feet waiting beside John for the medicine. 

When their order was handed over in a white paper bag, they dragged themselves upstairs and out of the hospital. Somehow, John managed to drive back to the building without falling asleep at the wheel. 

Back in their apartment, John was hanging up his coat when he suddenly stopped and smacked his forehead. “Forgot to get that PediaLife shit. I’ll go now.”

Claire furrowed her brow. “Are you too tired? We can pick some up tomorrow. I mean, later today.”

John was already shrugging his coat back on. “There’s a store just at the end of the block. I’ll be right back.”

An hour later, it was near five in the morning, and he had not returned. Both Claire and Laura were growing more concerned with each passing minute. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, the Princess gazed outside their bedroom window at the ceaseless flurries floating to the ground, at the wind rustling through the tree branches. 

“Oh!” Laura groaned; John’s mother was pacing back and forth, to the front door and back to the window, dressed in Claire’s Yummi Sushi pajamas, looking worried and absurd. “I knew I should’a gone out instead!”

Claire sighed and patted her half-slumbering baby’s back. “Laura—“ 

“He was too tired! And now he’s probably crashed into a snowbank somewhere—“ 

“Laura, stop!” the redhead cried—which, of course, woke Danielle. The infant began sobbing, and Claire bounced her in her arms. “Sorry. But you’re scaring me.”

Laura sank down in the wicker chair beside Danielle’s Bart Bassinet. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m just worried.”

Claire’s lips twitched as she reached over and squeezed Laura’s arm. She idly wondered if the woman had been this concerned a few years ago, say, after Jake Bender drove his son from his house in the middle of the night. During a snowstorm. Or if she was too entrenched in getting as stoned as possible. 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” she replied, worried herself. She knew John could take care of himself, he was street smart and had a clear head on his shoulders, but he’d said he’d be “right back” and it had been an hour already. “John knows what he’s doing.”

Danielle’s wails rose in pitch, and Claire rested her against her shoulder, rubbing her back. “Oh. I know. I know you’re uncomfortable. Don’t worry, sweetie.” She kissed the top of her slightly sweaty head. “Daddy went to get you some special milk.”

Laura smiled and leaned forward to drag a finger down Danielle’s heated neck. Claire continued to bounce her, trying to calm her. 

The sound of the front door opening and slamming shut flooded the apartment. “I got it!” John called, his voice reverberating through the walls. 

“Thank God.”

“Had to go to three stores,” John continued, accompanied by the clanging of pots and pans. “No one was selling this stuff. Any convenience store, my ass.”

Claire and Laura tittered. Danielle continued to cry. 

“I’ll make it,” he added. There was a whoosh as the gas oven was turned on. “Huh. You need to add milk to the milk? Fucking weird.” 

A few minutes later, John brought in the warm bottle of formula. Thick flakes of snow dotted his wild hair, the skin of his face was a few shades paler than his normal beige complexion, and deep bruiselike shadows dug grooves beneath his eyes. He looked shattered, like he would fall over any second. 

Claire was sure she, herself, was no better. 

John passed her the bottle, and she aimed it at Danielle’s pursed mouth. Three attempts to insert the rubber nipple between her lips resulted in the baby emitting an agonized cry and slapping the bottle out of Claire’s hands. There, it went sailing to the far wall. 

Her boyfriend chuckled and went to pick it up off the floor. “Knew at some point she’d hurl this against the wall.”

Laura shook her head. “Again, like father, like daughter.”

John grinned proudly down at Danielle. “Okay, kid. You need to drink this up. I know it’s not as good as your mom’s boob juice, but…” Claire rolled her eyes tiredly. “…it’s good for you, so down the hatch.”

Taking the bottle from him, Claire tried again. Following a moment’s stubbornness, the infant finally accepted the formula. 

“Thank God,” she breathed again, slumping, bushed, where she perched on the edge of the bed. 

Once the milk was drunk down and Claire burped Danielle, John took the baby from Claire’s weary hands and placed her inside the Bart Bassinet. Laura fetched the medicine, then returned to the bedroom. 

John took one of the droppers of the creamy orange…whatever it was. The medicine was parsed out in oversize eyedroppers or squeegees or something, and Danielle had to drink down one at a time every twelve hours. They’d been given fifteen. 

Claire watched as his back bent over the bassinet and he inserted the tip of the eyedropper into Danielle’s mouth. “Come on, Dani. I know this is gross and kinda looks like radioactive orange juice, but it’ll make you feel better.”

Danielle whined but let her father inject the medicine. That done, he wiped her mouth with a piece of cloth, pat her hair, and kissed her forehead. 

Claire smiled through her fatigue. 'He really is so good with her'. 

Sinking on the edge of the mattress beside her, he gazed at her face, frowned, and put an arm around her. She figured that she must’ve looked even worse than he did. “You all right?”

Claire’s lips flickered. “I’m fine.”

John did not appear convinced. Not that she could blame him. Her denial, even to her own ears, sounded pathetic. “You should get to bed. You look exhausted.”

'There’s nothing a girl loves more than being told she looks tired.' “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She laughed through her nose. “I know, I know. We need to sleep. It’s just…ugh, I’ve been so *worried* about her.”

John sighed and pulled her closer to his side. “I know, baby.” Claire felt his lips press against the top of her hair. “She’ll be all right. You heard the doc. It’s only a touch of that flu.”

Claire nodded and glanced up the unmade bed. “We really need to sleep. But what about the baby? We have to monitor her carefully.”

Laura, who was bent over the infant and murmuring baby talk, straightened. “I can watch her.”

John shook his head. “Nah, just go to bed, Ma.” 

Laura had been doing a decent job with Danielle thus far, but it was evident that John still did not entirely trust his mother—not enough to leave his sick daughter to her mercy, anyway. 

The woman opened her mouth, likely to disagree, but quickly closed it, nodded, and disappeared across the hall. Accepting her son’s decision. 

Claire looked up at him. “What do we do?” she asked, her voice croaky. 

He gazed across the room at the Bart Bassinet, where Danielle was still awake clapping her fists in the air. “I’ll watch her.”

“But you need rest, too!” the Princess negated with a shake of her head. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” John replied, rising to a standing position. “It’s not a problem. Go to sleep, Queenie.” 

Claire’s shoulders slumped in defeat, too tired to argue, and she crawled over the mattress to the headboard. Her face was already buried in a pillow and her eyes were closing when she mumbled, “Okay. Wake me in two hours, and I’ll take the next watch.”

“Okay.”

There was the sound of a chair being pulled across the floor, a thunk, and John muttering to the baby “It’s just you and me, kid” before Claire fell into La La Land. 

When she blinked awake the next morning, John was still seated in that same chair, half splayed over the vanity beside Danielle’s bassinet, snoring slightly and sleep-chewing on the end of an eyebrow pen. 

Climbing out of bed, Claire shook her head, smiled fondly, and approached Danielle. The baby was wide awake, eyes clear and lips pursed, chubby arms waving around. Claire’s smile morphed into a delighted grin. 

“HI, baby!” she cooed, picking up a squirming Danielle =out of the bassinet. “How are you feeling this morning?” Pressing a hand flat against her head, she added, “You feel a bit cooler. Come on, let’s get you fed.”

Before she left the room to mix some of that PediaLife stuff, Claire tapped John on the shoulder and called his name until his eyes shot open. “What? What? I’m up. I’m awake.”

Claire curled a hand around his shoulder. “John, go lay down.”

“Is Dani okay?”

“She’s a bit cooler this morning,” she told him, then assisted his shattered body out of the chair and into the bed. “Rest for now.”

He was asleep and snoring before his head hit the pillow. Claire’s affectionate smile returned, and she flicked the light off.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: If you've ever seen the original IT miniseries with Harry Anderson (RIP) as Richie, you know how John sounds with his horrible Japanese accent.
> 
> Note 2: And Mr. Bender makes his first appearance. Sort of. In theory.
> 
> Note 3: I had that same alarm clock. Never failed to scare the shit out of me in the morning. 
> 
> Note 4: An angry John is a scary thing indeed.
> 
> Note 5: Bender still pushes stuff to the floor when he's pissed.
> 
> Note 6: An hour's wait is pretty short in the ER, especially at night. I've had to wait for four hours before.
> 
> Note 7: That milk for sick infants actually did exist (at least in the 80s, when no one was privy to the fact that breastmilk on its own carried essential vitamins and nutrients in healing), my mom gave it to me when I was sick as a baby, but I can't frigging find what it was called anywhere, so I made up a name.
> 
> Mote 8: Buffy had her own pair of Yummi Sushi pajamas.


	36. Chapter 35: Do You Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. Hope your self-quarantining doesn't make you want to jump off the roof. My dogs are enjoying it, though.

Chapter 35: Do You Remember

The honeymoon had been awesome!

Overcoming his pants-wetting fear of heights, Andy had managed to conquer Mount Huntington—at least a good few hundred feet of it before he got dizzy and called it. Actually, he’d started to get dizzy at around the two-hundred mark, but stubbornness bade him continue. After over two days, he and his makeshift Sherpa were just shy of a thousand feet before the thinner oxygen combined with his intense fear of heights forced him down.

Still. He’d climbed higher than he ever would’ve thought possible, and that was pretty frigging sweet. Back at the observation deck, he bought a photograph and a plastic replica of the mountain in the gift shop to remember the experience. Not that he’d ever imagine himself forgetting scaling 1,000 feet of snowy mountain in Alaska.  
Afterwards, he and Ally flew back to Juneau to spend another few days with Charlie before catching a flight home. 

He couldn’t conceive of a better honeymoon. And he owed it all to…Allison’s parents. 

A part of him felt as though he was indebted to them or something. Ally assured him that he didn’t owe the Reynolds a frigging thing, and the honeymoon served as their delusion that now everything was a-ok between parents and daughter. 

Their flight back to O’Hare landed at the obscene hour of 4 AM. Ally, the night owl, happily skipped through the airport’s corridors, chattering away about all they’d seen and done in Alaska. Andy, on the other hand, was this close to face-planting on the luggage carousel. 

When they got back to the apartment, Andy was dead to the world before his dog-tired body could settle on the bed. Allison stayed awake another hour to watch a rerun of the "Tonight Show" she’d programmed the VCR to record. 

The Sport ended up sleeping until way past noon, very unlike him. He was usually up by nine at the latest. It was a damn good thing he wouldn’t be returning to work for another few days. 

The following day was the day before Brian and Jackie were bound for Baltimore, so he, the Brainiac, and Bender agreed to meet at the Bull (in lieu of Peggy Sue’s, as Bender was simply too tired to make the driver out to Shermer, only fifteen minutes away) while the girls did mani/pedis and stuffed their faces and watched romcoms or whatever it was girls did when they weren’t around.

Uh, well, he knew what *Ally* did, and that usually consisted of painting crazy, dark shit, watching horror movies, and/or playing "You’re A Grand Ole Flag" on her keyboard with her toes. 

Somehow, he doubted that Claire or Sloane Peterson wiled away the dull hours practicing how to do stuff with their feet. 

Chuckling, he parked his mom’s stupid caravan—he really had to save up for a car—in the lot behind the Bull and walked in. Brian was already there, punctual as usual, sipping from a bottle of what looked to be grape juice. Shaking his head, Andy claimed the barstool beside him, trying to ignore the cloistering scent of cigar smoke. 

“Hey, man,” he greeted, slapping Brian’s shoulder. “Johns Hopkins this week. You excited?”

Brian’s lips flickered. He was just recovering from a two week-long flu, so he sounded a bit congested. “Excited. N—nervous. Same thing.”

Andy grinned. “Hey, this is your dream! Don’t let anything get you down. Especially your mom.”

He would know. Andy had seized his own fears and fulfilled a childhood dream, too. And he had the photo in his wallet as proof. 

At the allusion to Mercedes Johnson, Brian cringed. “Sh—she’ll be trying to get me to change my mind until the plane takes off. She’s already been beeping me all night.”

On cue, Brian’s jeans pocket vibrated. His friend didn’t have to look to know who it was. 

Andy patted his shoulder again sympathetically. Then, he ordered a Bud.

A few minutes later, Bender, flanked by Ty and Josh, slumped through the double doors to the pub. The dude looked shattered—circles under his eyes, hair sticking up every which way, pale as a zombie. Even his walk was tired, sort of defeated and…zombie-ish. 

Bender sank down on a barstool beside Andy, and Josh and Ty took the two on either end. Andy was gawking at Bender as if he would sprout wings from his ears and fly. “Jesus. You look like hell.”

Beside Bender, Josh cackled. Bender himself scowled and ordered a Heineken. “Yeah, well. When you and Basketcase have your own hybrid tights-wearing freaks, you’ll look like this, too.”

Bender’s tone was devoid of the usual biting sarcasm. Instead, the guy sounded like a robot on autopilot. 

“Danielle’s been sick,” Josh explained off everyone’s puzzled expressions. “My sister and Johnathon here have barely gotten any sleep in days.”

*Johnathon* glared at Claire’s brother, halfheartedly flipped him off, and dropped his head on the bar top with a thunk that was discernable over the raucousness of the Beastie Boys advising people to fight for their right to party. 

Andy furrowed his brow, concerned. “She’s sick? What’s wrong?”

Josh ordered his own stein of beer. “Has a touch of that flu bug going around.”

To the Sport’s right, Brian groaned. “I know how she feels.” Andy patted him on the back. 

“Anyway, she’ll be okay,” Josh added, sipping his frothy pale ale. “Her fever’s already down. But our favorite first-time parents are a wee bit overprotective.”

Bender slowly picked his head up from the bar top and glowered. “Fuuuuuuuck yooooooooouuuuuuu.” 

Josh cackled in gaiety, throwing back his bright red head. 

“What you gotta do,” Ty began from the other end of the bar, cracking open a can of Coors and pouring the contents in a glass. “Is get some Josta.”

Andy blinked. “Get some what?” 

“Josta,” Ty explained, shoulders bobbing beneath his black t-shirt. “it’s an energy drink. At least that’s what Pepsi is calling it. It’s crazy caffeinated and has all this shit in it, like guarana.” 

Bender stared down the bar at his coworker. “What the fuck is that?”

“Some plant from the Amazon,” he said. “Supposed to be a stimulant. Keeps your heart pumpin’.” 

Bender exhaled and lowered his head back to the bar top. “I’ll try it. Shit, I’ll try anything at this point. Me and Claire have been so fucking tired.” He turned his head without picking it up from the wooden bar and gazed directly at Brian. “Dani has a worse concept of time than you, Brainiac.”

“Ha-ha,” the Brain droned. 

Andy swung back a shot of Bud. Broadcast on the suspended television above him was one of the playoff games between the Los Angeles Lakers and Chicago’s own Bulls. It was one of the last games of the season, and every TV in the pub was airing it. Andy cheered as Michael Jordan sailed through the air and delivered an awe-inspiring dunk. “How’re things going with your mother?”

If he was being perfectly honest, the idea of Bender even having a mother was, well, bizarre. A sentiment he and Brian shared. None of the Club had ever met either of his parents, or any member of his family, really. Not even Claire. Andy thought he remembered her telling them, years ago, that she’d glimpsed Jake Bender a few times from afar—either through the living room window or tinkering with his car—but, until recently, Laura Bender remained a mystery. She’d had no idea what the woman looked like. 

Now, she could see the family resemblance, according to Allison. Bender purportedly took after his father in looks—'Bet the dude loves that'—but Laura was in there, too. “The shape of the eyes,” Claire had told his new wife. “His lips are definitely hers.”

Andy cringed, realizing how she’d likely deduced that assessment. Not that he hadn’t been privy to worse. Much worse. 

Over the years, they’d all met each other’s families. The nurturing if a bit nosy Carol Clark and the slowly recovering asshole, Tim. The absurdly overprotective Mercedes and the quiet but commanding Ralph Johnson. The comparatively easygoing King of Chicago, Richard Standish and, of course, they all were familiar with the infamous Noracaine. The coolly aloof Lenore and Joseph Reynolds, whom they managed to engage with once or twice. Then there wereJosh Standish, Eleanor Reynolds, Mary Johnson, and Andy’s raucous brothers. Later, when Jackie came into the picture, they’d made the Takaharis’ acquaintance, too, mainly at college functions or charity galas. Sylvia was cool, but Mr. Takahari was intimidating as hell. 

The Club’s families were a part of their lives, for better or worse. 

*Most* of their families. Bender was the clear exception. And it was obvious as to why. He rarely mentioned his folks, before and after leaving Shermer. When he did, they all treaded carefully. They were keenly aware that Bender plus his parents equaled fireworks. 

Thus, the idea of his mom showing up out of the blue was like the Tooth Fairy poofing into existence. 

Yet, there she was, still at Housely. 

Bender rarely talked about his mom being there, But Andy could tell that an extra sense of wariness hung around the burnout. 

Now, Bender shrugged, the top half of his body still prone across the bar top. “Fine, I guess. So far.”

“Does Claire like her?”

“She seems to.” The burnout picked his head up to swig from the bottle of Heineken. “She didn’t know her when she was fucked up, though.” 

Brian cleared his still phlegmy throat. “And, um, wh—what was she like then?”

Bender paused before taking another sip, the opening of the bottle at his chin. “Different.”

“D—different how?”

“Just different.” His face abruptly closed off, as still as stone, and Andy knew that was the end of that conversation.

Next to him, Josh slapped Bender’s denim-clad back. “What you need is a guys’ night.” 

Bender scoffed. “Yeah, right. If I can stay awake for it. I’ll be passed out before Purple Mountains can reveal her Majesty.” 

Ty raised his glass. “Josta. Get some, bro.”  
**  
Allison, meanwhile, was spending the night at Claire’s with a few other girls—Jackie, Megan Hicks, and, for some ungodly reason, Benny Hanson. Megan had arrived at the door with Benny in tow, an apologetic wince on her face, and Claire hadn’t the heart, nor the wherewithal, to send her old frienemy away. 

Every time Allison looked over and remembered Benny’s unwanted presence, she had to fight the urge to strangle someone. 

Now, the girls were crowded in front of the TV in the living room watching "Grease". Danielle sat in Claire’s lap on the floor against the couch. “She likes the songs,” Claire had explained when the movie started. 

Before the gaggle was a plate of s’mores Megan had put together, as well as just opened bags of Cheetos, caramel popcorn, and Doritos. Though it was only six, the lights were off and the apartment was shrouded in darkness, other than the blaring from the TV as they watched the movie. 

On the screen, John Travolta was in the midst of jumping all over Olivia Newton-John in the front seat of his car. 

Allison plucked a Dorito from the bag at her feet. “Men. No means no!”

On cue, Danielle started bawling. Claire leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “That’s right, honey, that’s bad. If any boy ever does that to you, you just tell me and…actually, you should tell Daddy and he’ll shoot his junk off for you.”

On the chintz lounge chair at the opposite end of the half-circle, Jackie crunched on a Cheeto. “He can borrow my Remington.” 

“Where is my boy, anyway?” Laura, Bender’s mother, queried to Claire’s right. 

Gazing upon her was so *weird*. Bender’s parents had always been this sort of dark cloud that hung over the group, from the moment the Club was conceived that fateful Saturday in ’84. He’d almost never mentioned them after that day, but they all could plainly see the evidence of his father’s continued abuse. The swollen black eyes. The broken bones. The scars. 

He still had the cigar burn on his inner forearm that Mr. Bender, that jerk, had given him when he was fourteen. It looked as if he’d gotten it yesterday. 

Bender’s mother, whom he absolutely never mentioned, at least to anyone other than Claire, referring to him as “my boy” when she hadn’t been a part of his life for years left a sour taste in Allison’s mouth. 

If Claire felt the same, she didn’t show it. “With the other guys. I think they went to the Bull. Um, this pub in Logan Square.” 

Allison roiled her eyes. “They always go there when they want some dude time. They’ll all have hangovers tomorrow, girls. Be prepared.”

Leaning back in her chair, Jackie harrumphed. “Not my Brian. He doesn’t get drunk. He doesn’t like the taste of alcohol.” A shrug. “Besides, we’re flying to Baltimore tomorrow afternoon. Though a hangover may be preferable to having to share a plane with Mercedes Johnson.”

As one, they all giggled. It felt good. Ally liked being with other girls. It made her feel like they were in a secret club. 

Even if Benny was a temporary member. 

“Is she really that bad?” 'Speak of the Devil, and she may…also speak'. 

Jackie regarded her askance. “Worse.” 

“Aww,” Laura said, the Tennessee twang in her voice evident. “She’s just protective of her son.”

Jackie scoffed. “You say ‘protective’, I say ‘insane’.” She turned her head to regard Allison. “So, where’s your sister? I feel like we haven’t seen her in ages!”

Allison grinned. “That’s because she’s been spending all her free time with Stubbie. El’s out in San Antonio now on a job. He went with her.”

The occupants of the room snickered, even Benny. 'Hey, good for El.'

Megan gestured to the television. “Sandy’s about to get glowed up.” 

Indeed, on the screen, Olivia Newton-John crouched on the levee of the Los Angeles Aqueduct singing about saying goodbye to Sandra Dee. 

“Good,” Benny sneered, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder. “She’s such a goody-goody. She needs to bad girl up.”

Jackie snorted. “No woman should have to change her appearance to please a man. Brian loves me the way I am.” She cocked her head. “Though he did say he liked my hair down. What does that mean? Does he not like it up, then?” 

Allison crunched another Dorito. “Brian would worship you if you shaved your head, rolled around in green felt, rented a garbage pail, and called yourself Jacksar the Grouch.”

“Speaking of which,” Claire began, rising to a standing position with Danielle in her arms. “I got to put *my* grouch to bed. I’ll be right back. Maybe. If she goes to sleep this time.” 

The girls threw high-pitched goodnights at the baby, whose fingers twitched over Claire’s shoulder as though she was waving. Allison was charmed. 'She really is a cute kid. Even if she looks like Bender.' 

Later that night, when they were all scattered about the living room in their sleeping bags and quilts, Bender stumbled into the apartment and very nearly stepped on her head. “Hey! Watch it, stupid.”

John stared down at her. “Eat my shorts, Basketcase.” A pause, then a snorting laugh. “I mean my socks.” 

Allison flipped him off and fell back into Dreamland.  
**  
At O’Hare the next afternoon, Brian and Jackie waited at their gate to board. Both Sylvia and Mercedes were waiting with them, Brian’s mother dressed in one of her usual lycra athletic suits and Sylvia sophisticated in a green pantsuit. Mercedes sat beside her son while Sylvia claimed the blue plastic chair next to her daughter. She, Brian, and Jackie were listening to Mercedes’ desperate attempts to get Brian to change his mind at the last second. 

It was going as well as one would imagine.

“I hear there’s a lot of crime in Baltimore,” Mercedes chimed all too innocently, studying her nails. 

'Yeah, like there isn’t in Chicago?' Brian rolled his eyes. 

“I hope you have extra locks on your apartment,” his mother continued, now beginning to page through a Harlequin she’d picked up at the airport bookstore. 

Across from him, Sylvia Takahari’s eyes shot up to her hairline. 

“W—we’ll install some, Mom,” Brian replied, barely bothering to hide his exasperation. 

Mercedes cleared her throat. “Better get that pizza man to install some, too. And put bars on your windows.” 

Sylvia leaned toward her daughter and whispered something in her ear. Jackie’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. 

“All right, Mom,” Brian droned in placation. 

Fifteen seconds passed, then Mrs. Johnson slammed her book shut and turned to regard him. “Oh, why can’t you just remain here?! There’s nothing wrong with Feinberg!”

Sylvia, who’d apparently had enough of his mother’s kvetching, answered for him. “No, there isn’t. It’s a wonderful school. But Brian’s dream is Johns Hopkins, and that’s where he’s gonna go.”

Mercedes turned her pleading eyes into what Brian had always dubbed the Mom Glower of Death. And she was using it on Sylvia. It didn’t seem to work on Jackie’s mom. 

“And what about you, Sandra?” she bit; Mrs. Johnson knew full well what Sylvia’s name was. “Don’t you want your daughter to remain close?”

Sylvia shrugged. “Sure. But she’s an adult and it’s her life. And if she wants to go to Baltimore, she’ll dang sure go to Baltimore.” 

Jackie grinned proudly. 

Mercedes harrumphed and returned to her novel. 'Thank God.' 

Brian sighed and glanced at his watch. 1:50. Their plane wouldn’t begin boarding for another hour yet. They’d already checked all their bags, except for their carry-ons, and had browsed nearly every store on this floor, including the nearby taco stand and the 7-11. All they could do was sit here. Or throw another coin into the fountain at the end of the hall. Brian was out of wishes, so he dug his Gameboy out of his knapsack and busied himself with a game of Donkey Kong. 

“You guys been waiting long?”

Puzzled, Brian lifted his eyes to Andy’s smiling face. Pleasantly surprised, Brian broke out in a smile. The Sport was standing beside his grinning wife, who was mid-hug with Jackie. He thought they’d all said goodbye last night at the Bull and Claire and Bender’s apartment. He certainly hadn’t expected them to show up at the airport.

By the grouchy look on his mother’s face, Mercedes hadn’t expected that, either. 

“What are y’all doin’ here?!” Sylvia crowed, embracing Ally and Andy in turn. Mrs. Takahari wasn’t very acquainted with their friends, but Sylvia was a hugger by her own admission. 

“Yes,” Mercedes grunted. “What *are* you doing here?”

Andy and Allison sank down in seats next to Jackie. “That goodbye at the Bull wasn’t enough.”

“Yeah,” Allison added. “Besides, you all were too drunk to remember it. Andy came home smelling like a distillery.” 

Her husband blushed and shrugged sheepishly. 

Bender and Claire stepped off the escalator arguing about something, as was their wont. Brian could clearly discern their voices over the hubbub of the crowded airport thirty feet away. 

The Princess was trying to wrangle a large black carriage through the crowds. Presumably, Danielle was in it. “I seriously cannot believe you did that.”

Walking beside her, John grinned and slurped noisily at a carton of orange juice through a crazy straw. “You can’t? Hi, I’m John. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Claire’s eyes blinked heavenward. “You could’ve gotten arrested or something!”

Bender snorted. “For what? It’s not like I did anything illegal.” 

Claire paused and glared at him, her hands perched on her hips. “You shouted ‘Bomb, bomb! That guy’s gotta bomb!’ in the middle of a crowded airport and got some poor man in a trench coat taken away by guards.” 

Brian shook his head, not the least bit surprised. Jackie pursed her lips to keep from grinning. Andy was outwardly snickering. Mercedes’ mouth dropped open, incredulous. 

“Hey, you never know. He may really have been concealing military-grade weaponry in that trench coat of his and I just did this whole airport a favor.” 

“You keep telling yourself that, John.”

“I plan to.”

When they arrived at the gate, John chucked his empty orange juice carton in a nearby bin and cuffed Brian’s shoulder. The Brain swallowed a wince. He didn’t need Mercedes going crazy about that, too. “The Brainiacs are 'leavin’ on a jet plane. Don’t know when they’ll be back again'.” 

Jackie pushed her hair back from her forehead. His girlfriend was wearing her black tresses down today. Her hair hung around her face like a silky ebony waterfall. Brian liked. “We’ll be back in summer.”

Bender’s expression flattened. “That doesn’t sound as good. Ruin my song, why don’t you.”

Sylvia rose from her seat and scampered round the old-fashioned carriage. A wide smile bloomed across her face as she gazed down at the baby inside. “Aww! She’s such a little dickens!”

“Charles Dickens can eat his heart out,” John said, completely missing the point. Whether by accident or on purpose, Brian didn’t know. “She’s much cuter. I assume. I’ve never actually seen a picture of Dickens.”

Brian stared up at him. “There’s one on the back of 'A Tale of Two Cities'. We r—read it in twelfth grade…twelfth grade literature.” 

Bender blinked. “Exactly. That’s why I’ve never seen his picture.” 

Sylvia cackled. Mercedes crossed her arms over her chest. Claire glanced at Brian. “You knew that was coming.”

“I guess I did.” 

“Oh, I adore little babies,” Sylvia cooed as she picked Danielle out of her carriage. Mother regarded daughter. “I remember when you were a little one like this. So precious. I miss a little baby around the house. Maybe I’ll convince Hideo to try for another.”

Jackie grimaced and lowered her copy of "The Bell Jar" to her lap. “Please. Do not.”

“It’s not like your father and I don’t—“ 

Brian’s mother looked scandalized. She never spoke aloud about her, er, relations with his father. Not that Brian wasn’t immensely grateful for this. 

Leaning against a black-painted pillar, Bender guffawed. 

Jackie hastily slammed a pair of headphones over her ears. 

Thirty minutes later, their flight was being called. Brian and Jackie stood, Sylvia immediately engulfing them both in a hug. “Now remember, call me every day. I don’t care about the time difference.” 

As soon as Sylvia let Brian go, Mercedes crushed him to her chest, tears leaking from her eyes. She ignored Jackie standing beside him. “Oh, my baby! You beep me the second you land! Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

Andy, Allison, Claire, Bender, Jackie, and Sylvia rolled their eyes. 

Brian pursed his lips. “N—no, Mom.” 

Mercedes’ shoulders slumped. “Fine. Just…beep me.” 

Claire and Allison embraced them each in turn. “Have fun!”

“We know you’ll both kick ass,” Ally added, and Brian’s lips quirked. 

Andy passed him a heretofore unseen shopping bag. “New binders. They have Michael Jordan on the front.” 

Bender, once again, punched Brian in the arm. “If you get any hot professors, be sure to forward their photos.”

Claire shook her head and took Danielle back from Sylvia to replace her in the carriage. 

After one more goodbye—and another bone-crushing embrace from his mother—Brian and Jackie disappeared through the gate.  
**  
John was having a pretty intense nightmare.

It was a quintessential night for it, he supposed. It was April showers that hadn’t brought May flowers yet, and damn, was the rain coming down hard. And thundering and lightning like Zeus himself was having a wicked argument with KISS on Mount Olympus. The racket kept Dani up, so they’d moved her to the Bart Bassinet. She shuttered to wakefulness with a cry still; John had placed a tiny pair of headphones over her ears. 

Outside, the tall oak trees shook and twisted in the wind, occasionally causing a bare branch to brush against the window with a scratching sound. In the shadows along the walls, the dead branch looked like a demon claw reaching for his Iron Maiden poster. 

Now, after he’d finally managed to fall asleep amid the crying and the thundering and the scratching, his subconscious had to conjure the most detailed images…of a moment he didn’t particularly wish to relive again. 

John rarely had good dreams. Or, if he did, he forgot them as soon as he woke up. His nightmares, though…those were sometimes happy to stay in his consciousness, presenting him with a truly disturbing mini-movie only he could see. 

Said nightmares usually consisted of something Dear Ole Dad had done to him as a kid. They were very scarcely events he conjured up in his mind that would never happen. Generally, they were ones that already had. 

He’d left Shermer and his old man behind years ago. But the fucker still haunted him. 

In his R.E.M. sleep, images flashed through his brain. An unpainted garage. A beaten up refrigerator. His jackhole of a father’s red, grinning face. White breaths of smoke puffing in the air before him.

Mostly, his body remembered being very, very cold. It shivered and shook with the recollected sensation. John could feel his appendages numbing, his lips blanching of all color, his shoulders shaking involuntarily…

With a start, John woke, popping up in bed. His forehead was dotted in a cold perspiration, his muscles quivered, and his throat was as dry as the Sahara. John swallowed—once, twice, hearing his breathing roar in his ears. Other than the occasional thunderous boom, his panting was the only sound in the room.

John groaned and bent in half, massaging his suddenly aching head with the pads of his thumb and index fingers. 

'Fuck. FUCK'. 

That one had been vivid. It’d been a while since Bender had had one of those Back There nightmares, at least not one strong enough to recall when he woke up. This particular nightmare was so prescient, he could still feel the lingering arctic blast on his skin, hear the muffled blare of the television, fucking smell the scent of moldy, old newspapers mixed with motor oil. 

He wasn’t stupid. He knew this little detour was due to his mother being right across the hall, but hell if he was going to say anything. She felt guilty enough simply being here. 

John dragged a hand through his hair, leaving the strands sticking up around his head like he’d just stuck his finger in a light socket. 

Just behind his shoulder, he could hear the covers scratching against each other and Claire stirring. In his peripheral vision, he watched her sit up and blink the sleep out of her eyes. “John?”

“Go back to sleep, Claire,” he ordered, his tone somewhere between short and panicked. 

“John…”

“I’m fine!” he insisted, feeling the total opposite of fine. His heart was racing, his palms were sweating, and he wanted to throw up. 

John’s gaze darted around the room as though Jake would step out of the shadows, angry, leering, and drunk. 

“You’re not fine,” Claire said. The pitch of her voice was gentle, if brokering no room for argument. “You’re shaking.”

Indeed, his shoulders trembled beneath the black sleep shirt he wore. No matter how he tried to order them to stop, his body refused to yield. His teeth clicked together as though the chill from many years ago had seeped into his bones and was now making itself known. 

“Hey,” Claire soothed. He heard her crawl up behind him and rest her dainty hands on his quivering shoulders, the part of his neck that instantly relaxed his body and turned him to goo. It wasn’t working as well as it usually did. “Hey, it’s okay. John.”

Bender could still determine the echo of his old man clanging in his head—that night, so long ago now…the slur in his voice, the gleeful hatred…

Closing his eyes, John could plainly see the spark of madness in Jake’s face. That was the part he never mentioned—the gaiety in his father’s gaze, the way his being lit up at the prospect of inflicting pain. 

“John,” Claire prodded again. Her warm breath puffed on the side of his neck, the creamy crap she used before bed perfuming the air with roses. “It’s okay. He—he’s not here…” 

“I know that, Claire!” 

Pregnant, embarrassed silence. John instantly felt like utter shit. She was just trying to help him, he knew that. His old man’s presence had invaded his mind, and he could think of nothing else. When that happened, he was transported back six, seven years ago, back to the angry kid he’d been, back, in some ways, to the angry kid he still was. For many years, he’d been conditioned to deal with it all in silence. Even after all this time, sometimes, his brain simply refused to believe that there was someone else who cared. 

John swallowed harshly, like sandpaper down his esophagus. “Shit. Sorry.” He looked down at his lap. “He gets into my fucking head.” 

The hands were back on his neck, massaging the muscle there, and the tension lightened from his shoulders a bit. “I know. I know he does.” 

A pause. The hands disappeared from his person. “I’m going to get you some juice, okay? You need some sugar.”

John watched while she threw her robe on and started for the door. “Two parts orange and—“ 

“—one part grapefruit, I know.” Claire smiled and dashed out into the hall. Upon her return a few minutes later, she clutched a glass of orange liquid and passed it to him. 

“Thanks, Princess,” John mumbled, then downed the contents of the glass. The cool, pulpy liquid soothed his dry, aching throat. 

Claire sighed and lowered herself to perch on the edge of the bed beside him. “Do you wanna talk about it? May help.” Her palm returned to rub his back. Like he was Dani in the middle of a crying jag. 

John gazed unseeingly into the depths of the glass. His mind was right Back There again, his own personal version of Hell, his old man Satan. 'Lucifer’s got nothin’ on Jake'. 

He rarely discussed his “dreams”, those reflections into the waking Hell that was his childhood. He’d never wanted to scare Claire, to further open the locked window into his youth that he only permitted her to gaze through, preferably via translucent glass. He also didn’t want people to feel sorry for him or whatever, so he usually kept his mouth shut. Pity was worse than hate in his book. 

But, for some unknown reason, his mouth was speaking before his brain managed to catch up. John exhaled deeply, not looking at her. “It was a few months before I…before that detention. Actually, it was my birthday.” The ensuing laugh was rueful and devoid of all humor. “Um, I had spent the day with my friends. I think we went to a concert or something.”

Claire was silent, but her fingers squeezed his arm. 

John cleared his throat. He wished he had more juice. “I came home late. I guess it was around…12:30? I figured there wouldn’t be anyone downstairs, so I came in through the front door.” Another regretful chuckle. “Bad idea.”

He heard Claire swallow beside him. “Was he there?”

Bender nodded. “Oh, yes. There he was, splayed out on the couch like a fucking king, sucking on a flask of Jim Beam. The TV was on. I remember quite clearly he was watching a rerun of 'I Dream of Jeannie'.” 

He did not tell her that the crystal clear recollection was due in large part to his childhood crush on Barbara Eden in her hot as hell genie costume. 

One of these days, he’d have to convince Claire into one of those. 

“Oh, I had a thing for Larry Hagman in that,” Claire mused. 

John chuckled. “Got a thing for astronauts, do you? I’ll remember that.”

His princess laughed, and the sound was music to his ears. 

He continued. “The old man was obviously drunk off his ass. When he heard me come in, he staggered to his feet. He could barely stand. He pointed at me and said ‘Boy. You’re home past curfew.’”

John could see it all play out in his mind’s eye clear as day, as though it’d happened yesterday and not seven years ago now. His old man struggling up from the couch, the flask clutched loosely in his dirty hand. Staggering like a zombie to the front foyer where he stood, frozen in shock. The finger waggling in front of him. The irate/gleeful rumble of his old man’s voice. The bags of unopened groceries on the floor at his feet. The stacks of magazines on the table beside him. The peeling paint on the walls…

“What happened?” Claire prodded.

Bender shook his head a bit to clear the not-cobwebby-enough cobwebs. “I never had a curfew, but logic was never my dad’s strong suit. He hit me, kept muttering about ‘piece of shit, thinks he can come home whenever he likes’, and dragged me down to the basement.” 

He glanced askance at the bobbing of her throat muscles as she swallowed. “What did he do?”

Once again, John closed his eyes and laughed darkly. “He fucking threw me in the garage and locked the door. And not just the basement door. The garage door itself.”

Claire’s dark eyes broadened in their sockets. “You were locked in! For how long?”

“Three days,” John bit, sneering at the memory. 

“Three days?!” The hand on his back flexed, almost like she was grabbing him to keep him there. “And this was in October? In *Chicago*?! John, you could’ve froze to death!”

He knew. It didn’t take much to send him right back inside that freezing garage, where the only light came from a twitching overhead lamp and his sole glimpse to the outside world was via a tiny slab of glass embedded into the bottom of one of the walls. It wasn’t even a window, he couldn’t open it, and even if it was, the tiny square was way too small to fit his body through. He remembered thinking how the Hulk’s services could be used right now.

John shrugged, as if he wasn’t haunted, the whole traumatic event no big deal. “I found some old coats and duvets to stay warm. Old man never threw anything away. We also had a fridge in the garage. It was only for beverages, but at least I had water.”

'And a whole shitload of beer'. He’d needed it to get through those three days. 

Claire was gazing at the side of his face, her mouth forming a perfect O; it never ceased to amaze her that he could sound so cavalier about all his father had done to him. She had grasped his hand in hers and now traced invisible circles around a knuckle with her thumb. “How…how did you get out of that?”

“Ma let me out,” John replied with a self-deprecating quirk of the lips. “She asked my dad where I was, and when he grinned and looked at the basement steps, she knew somehow. She was crying when she let me out. I think she was afraid she’d find my frozen corpse or something.”

The footsteps thundering down the stairs. His ma sobbing. The door being thrown open. His chilled body wrapped in Laura’s thin arms. He even remembered the texture of her sweater, scratchy like cheap wool. 

Claire blanched a shade paler than her usual ivory. A hand rose to palm his cheek. “Don’t joke about that. I’m glad she found you. I just…I can’t…” 

A sob tore from his princess’ throat. John cringed and put an arm around her. Sometimes, he really did forget this shit didn’t just affect him anymore. “Hey, I was all right. She drew me a bath. Made me hot cocoa for the first time since I was eight and had mono.” 

He would like to brag that that case of mono extended from his being a classroom Casanova, but, really, it had come from sharing a water bottle in gym class. 

Claire squeezed his thigh. “Thank God. I’m surprised you didn’t get pneumonia.” 

“Nah,” he negated, climbing back under the covers. “Bit of a chest cold, though.” 

She lay down beside him, her head at his bicep. “Your father is fucking evil.” 

“No argument there.”  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Josta was really the first energy drink branded on the market. It technically debuted in '95 but whatever.
> 
> Note 2: Back in the early 90s, John's stunt probably would've gotten him a reprimand. Nowadays, he'd have been arrested for sure.
> 
> Note 3: Two parts orange and one part grapefruit is also Buffy's drink of choice, as she said in the season 2 episode "Killed By Death". I embarrass myself.
> 
> Note 4: Tom Ellis' Lucifer would HATE Jake so much.


	37. Chapter 36: Awakenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy April! Bender's favorite holiday just passed. He'd be sad today that Nair and fake dog poop are not considered essential items.

Chapter 36: Awakenings

“Danielle, please go to sleep. For Mommy?”

Allison was trying, she really was. Though not a mother herself yet, she wasn’t an idiot; she knew that raising a kid was hard, especially at such a young age. And part of that was doing all that was possible to get said kid to sleep. Alas, Ally couldn’t help herself. Watching Claire’s normally quaffed hair stand on end as she pled with her baby to go to sleep already was quite humorous. 

They were standing at the entrance to the little park beyond Claire’s building, the one Bender called Hobo & Bird Shit Park. Danielle was near five-months-old, it was the middle of April, and it was finally starting to get warm and stay warm in Chicago. It was a balmy 65 degrees outside, and Allison shucked her hoodie, tying it around her waist. She was off work today, Andy was back at Leo Burnett slaving away in his own little cubicle, and Bender was at his own office, so Ally had come up here to keep Claire company. Laura Bender was there, but she still wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about her and didn’t like leaving her friend to the mercy of someone who’d stood by and done nothing while her husband beat the shit out of their son. 

Thus, she’d volunteered to keep Claire company today. So far, they’d grabbed a bite at Peggy Sue’s, went back to the apartment to watch 'The Great Escape' (Claire’s idea; she had a thing for war movies…and vintage Steve McQueen), did each other’s toenails, and danced around to some tunes. When Danielle wouldn’t go down for her nap, though, Allison suggested they take a walk around the park, seeing as it actually felt like Spring today. 

It didn’t seem to be working yet. At the park’s gated entrance, Danielle, in her carriage, blinked up her mother, then waved around her petri dish rattle. 

Claire rested her head on the handlebar, groaning. 

Allison grinned. “Stubborn, ain’t she? Wonder where she gets *that* from.”

Without lifting her head, the Princess replied, “John says with both of us as parents, Danielle is pretty much doomed to be as thick-headed as a rhino.” 

Ally snickered. “Sounds about right.”

They moved on, meandering through the thin lanes and pathways, Claire muttering a curse every time a carriage wheel caught on a crack. Allison shook her head. 'She was right. That baby’s first word really *is* going to be "shit"’. 

They walked along, bypassing the remnants of an overlong winter beginning to thaw. There were errant dirty patches of snow melting on the edges of grass islands. Wildflowers popping up amid thickening greenery. Majestic fruit trees sprouting cherries and oranges and lemons. Couples and families picnicked beneath the branches, lounging atop woolen blankets, bracing backs against thick tree trunks. Some had brought pets, others small children. Joggers in lycra raced around the small manmade pond. On the surface bobbed schools of swans and their ducklings, the water now a friendly blue instead of the dreary gray it’d been all winter.

When they rounded the playground, Allison grinned. “Is it true you almost popped a chick here?”

Claire paused, brow furrowed, then rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah. John’s old coworker. She was obsessed with him…or at least obsessed with the fact that he didn’t want anything to do with her. I got tired of it and told her off.”

Ally quirked an eyebrow. “Told her off how?”

Her friend shrugged. “I basically threatened to have her silenced. So far, she’s been heeding my warning.”

“You can be terrifying.” A beat. “But if it were Andy, I’d have probably done worse.”

“If it were Andy, you’d have tracked her down, broken into her apartment, and scrawled 'I’m watching you, bitch' on the walls in your own blood.” 

Allison cocked her head. 'She’s not wrong.' 

Claire peered into the carriage. Danielle’s eyelids were starting to droop. The redhead breathed a sigh of relief… 

…one that quickly became a surprised gasp when a thick-fingered hand clamped around her upper arm. Allison watched as Claire spun around, then went noticeably paler. Puzzled, Ally’s gaze slid to the owner of the hand, up one veined, sunburnt arm…and her eyes widened. For, though she’d never glimpsed him, even from afar, Allison was acutely aware of just whom she was looking at. 

Jake Bender was absolutely an older version of his son—an older, slightly shorter, and rounder version of his son, anyway, his body puffed out with a distinct beer belly. His hair, though still full, was a bit darker than John’s and dotted with gray at the temples. The beige skin of his face drooped with a combination of middle age and alcohol abuse. Cumbersome circles lined his eyes, the whites of which were shot through with red. His nose, too, harbored quite a few broken capillaries. 

It was his narrowed eyes and frowning mouth that stopped Allison cold. Even drunk, which Jake Bender clearly was, he had this distressing, intimidating aura about him, one that she couldn’t imagine John having to stand up to every day for eighteen years. 

If Ally was nearly peeing herself, Claire appeared to be this close to a heart attack. 

The thick fingers on her bicep bit into the exposed skin. A fire burned in Jake’s eyes. Allison automatically stepped closer to the baby’s carriage. 

When the man opened his mouth, Ally could plainly smell whiskey on his breath. “Claire Standish?”

Claire, rightly, said nothing, but gulped audibly.

Mr. Bender’s grip tightened. “Well?!”

The Princess’ dark eyes glanced quickly at the carriage just behind her. When she spoke, she didn’t sound like her usual self, confident and proud of who she was. “Y—yes.”

Jake’s grip did not loosen. “Where’s my son?!”

Some color was notably returning to Claire’s bone-white face. Her eyes were narrowed, her lips pursed. That was more the Claire Allison recognized. Still, her voice wavered as she replied, “He—he’s not here.”

“Bullshit!”

“He’s not!” Claire insisted, yanking her arm free. Ally could tell that she was trying not to wince. “It’s a workday.” 

Jake Bender ducked an inch or two in order to be more level with her, to glare into her face. “Well, then, girlie. *You’re* gonna let me up. So’s I can bring my wife home.” 

Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t believe I am. *Sir.*” 

Allison slipped her hand into her friend’s, trying to give her silent support. 'Jesus, I can’t believe he had the balls to do this.' 

John probably could, though. 

The Basketcase would’ve thought this refusal to make Jake Bender explode. But, instead, he merely hummed and casually strolled around them…to where Danielle’s carriage was. Both Claire’s and Allison’s skin bleached a sickly pale. Ally could feel the ice water running through her veins.

“Cute kid,” Jake Bender said, blatantly bending down to peer over the edge of the carriage. “Looks like m’ boy. Guess she’s his, after all.”

The smile that stretched the man’s face was cruel, cold, and calculating. Allison tried to open her mouth, to say something, to *do* something, *anything*, but she was frozen. And they were in a corner of the park that was scarcely populated. The few that were around merely glanced at them and moved on. 

Ally had never felt so utterly useless in all her life. And she’d spent a damn good amount of time feeling such. 

Claire instantly darted forward, freezing only when Jake ran one extended finger down Danielle’s tiny nose. The baby, too, looked wary.

“She’s so fragile, too,” Jake Bender continued in a chillingly conversational tone. Allison wished she had some kind of weapon with her—a gun, a knife, some mace. Why didn’t she carry mace? This was Chicago! 

“Tiny thing,” he went on. His voice rumbled and croaked from cigarette smoke. “Wonder what it would take—“ 

Abruptly, Jake paused, blanching a shade paler, his bushy dark brows pushing up to his hairline. Bender, *their* Bender, appeared behind him, over his father’s meaty shoulder, his face contorted in barely veiled rage. “Get. The *fuck*. Away from her.” 

Jake slowly turned around to face his son. Claire raced to Danielle’s side and picked the baby up out of her carriage. She was wide awake now, not crying but eyes open and uncertain. Little hands clamped around her mother’s neck. Claire was trying to hold in a sob, Allison could tell, so, trembling, she reached into her bag and plucked out a tissue. The Princess took it in thanks, her hand quaking. 

'At least I’m good for something', Ally thought, disgusted at herself and her inability to do more. 

Bender had the point of a shiny switchblade poking into his father’s fleshy side. When he glared at Jake, there was an inferno in his eyes that Allison personally hadn’t glimpsed since…ever. “It’s a good fucking thing I just bought myself a new one of these. Figured I should keep one around, in case you show up again.”

When Jake laughed, it sent a shiver down Allison’s spine. “Who you kiddin’, *boy*? You ain’t gonna use that on me.” 

John grinned humorlessly. “Try me.” The point went further into Jake’s waist, just beneath his ribcage; a droplet of crimson blood fell to the ground in what, to Allison, looked like slow-motion. 

Mr. Bender’s light brown eyes widened. The exact same hue as that of his son’s. And his granddaughter’s. 

“You see,” John continued, his tone noticeably nonchalant, as if he were speaking of as innocuous a topic as the weather. “Before, it was just me. And I had Ma to think about. Now…” He didn’t take his gaze off the man for a second, leering down at him from his height advantage. He looked positively dangerous. Ally was both wary and impressed. “…it’s way more than just me. Ma’s safely upstairs. And…” Jake winced as the point pressed further into his side. “…you come within ten fucking miles of my kid, or my girlfriend, again, I will *end* you. I have no goddamn problem with that.” 

Mr. Bender’s thin, wormy lips pursed. “This ain’t over, kid.” 

“You better *pray* it is, old man.” 

John watched his back until he disappeared down a small hill and out the main gate. Only then did he exhale, retract the blade, and dart to where Claire was anxiously bouncing a bewildered Danielle. He rested both palms on her shoulders. “Are you okay?! Did he hurt you? Is Dani—“ 

Claire was nodding too emphatically, too quickly. “We’re fine. I just…Jesus, I didn’t expect…but I should have! He wasn’t going to just give up after that one try!”

When that sob finally tore from her throat, Allison watched as he muttered a curse and enveloped Claire in his arms. He kissed the top of her head and rubbed her back comfortingly, exposing a side of John Bender he rarely, if ever, let anyone but the Princess see. For a minute, Allison felt like an intruder. She wasn’t meant to bear witness to Bender’s softer side. He didn’t seem to care in that moment *who* was watching them. 

When he pulled apart from her, he loosely held Danielle’s fist in his index finger and thumb. “You’re sure he didn’t hurt you?”

Claire’s gaze blinked to the exposed skin of her right arm. There, blooming over the ivory flesh, Jake Bender, that asshole, had left three red marks and two bruises. 

John cursed again and gently ran the pad of his thumb over the blemishes. “I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him.”

Claire was shaking her red head. “It’s okay. It…doesn’t hurt or anything.”

Bender sighed. “I want you to carry mace from now on. Or one of those Tasers that look like lipstick.” 

“They sell those at the army surplus store near me,” Allison said, her tone softer than usual. “We can both get stuff.”

John swirled to face her, as if only just remembering her presence. 'Can’t blame the guy'. He nodded once, then ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “Good. That fucking asshole…” 

Claire was laying Danielle back in her carriage. “How’d you even know he was…here?”

“I was drivin’ home and saw him enter the park,” he explained, each word dripping with barely restrained venom. “I had a bad feeling.” 

She nodded. Ally stared down at the toes of her Chucks. “He came out of nowhere…” 

“It wasn’t nowhere,” John negated, his lips forming a straight line. “He was watching. He knew *someone* from our apartment would come out of the building eventually.” 

Back at the apartment, John was smearing anti-inflammatory cream across Claire’s bruises. Once he was done, she shrugged a cardigan over her shoulders. She didn’t want to alert Laura to what had happened with her husband, for some reason. 

'Tell her. Shove it in her face'. Allison, too, was feeling the flames. She was angry. That woman was putting her entire family at risk by being here. 

Bender stepped back once he was finished and crossed his arms. “I’m going to install another lock on the front door. Just in case.”

Claire nodded. After he left the bathroom, Allison looked at her friend. “You should tell her.”

“Tell who?”

Allison scoffed. “Laura. Mrs. Bender. Whatever. You should tell her what happened.”

Claire was shaking her head before the words were out of her mouth. “I can’t.”

“Claire—“

“If I tell her,” she interrupted, briefly catching her lower lip between her front teeth. “She’ll lose it.”

Again, the Basketcase sneered. “So?”

“*So*,” Claire said pointedly, placing her hands on her hips. “If she loses it, she might start using again. And she’s been working hard to stay sober.”

Ally’s lips pressed together like she’d tasted something sour. “I’m sorry, Claire, but, you know, I care about you guys more than her.”

The Princess sighed. Her face reflected how conflicted she felt. “I know. But she’s John’s *mother*, Ally.” When Allison said nothing, she pressed, “Please. Promise me you won’t say anything…” 

Allison hesitated only briefly, then blew a strand of hair out of her face, a touch exasperated. “Fine. I get it, I do. It’s just…that guy’s a madman.” 

Jake Bender’s name need not be spoken aloud to delineate which madman she was referencing. 

Claire bobbed her red head. “He’s even worse than I realized. It’s like…there’s nothing there.” 

“How the hell did Bender live with that asshole all those years?”

“I don’t know.” Claire stared down at her shoes. “I really don’t.”  
**  
“He WHAT?!”

Andy had had a helluva day. It was his first full week back at work, and his boss, Mr. Porras, was not easing him back into it but rather hurling him head-first into the deep end. As an entry level “mad man”, he was mostly relegated to busy work—filing and sorting and stamping and stuffing envelopes. Occasionally, he would be permitted to work on an actual campaign, to gain experience, but, according to one of his coworkers, at least another year’s busy work was required before he could really contribute. He had his foot in the door, but the process of filling out requisition forms and looking up addresses in the phonebook was killing him. Possibly literally. 'I may start bleeding out from all these paper cuts.' 

Today had been spent sitting in on meetings with Leo Burnett clients, White Castle and Maidenform and some VHS distribution company, and then returning to his desk to fill out form after form after freaking form. He was vaguely surprised he had any blood remaining in his body. 

He’d also had to deal with an irate customer, a lady who worked at Chase Bank. As the youngest in the office, part of Andy’s job was to listen to the squawking of angry clients, a task no one else was particularly inclined to do. Thus, earlier, the Sport had already trudged home with a splitting headache. 

When he got back to the apartment, Ally wasn’t there. He figured she was with Claire, so he walked into the shower, dressed in a pair of sweats, and turned on the TV to relax. When his wife returned home, her posture was more subdued than he was used to seeing her, more like the Allison of the past, the one who had borne her parents’ mental abuse for years. 

Instantly concerned, Andy rose from the couch and went to her. When he asked what was wrong, Ally took a deep breath…and it all poured out.

The notion of Claire, his friend, Allison, his wife, and Danielle, a frigging baby staring down that bastard, Jake Bender, was enough to stop his heart. 

Allison sighed and pushed her bangs back from her face. “I know. It was crazy. I can’t believe he even had the balls to…” She crossed her arms, sheathed in an oversize black sweater, over her chest, appearing both pissed and cold. Smaller, somehow. “Andy. He’s so much worse than we understood. It’s like…being near him, I know why Bender always had a hard time standing up to him.” 

Andy nodded solemnly, sticking his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “Did he hurt you? If he hurt you, I swear to God, I’ll—“ 

But his wife was shaking her head. “Not me. He…left a few bruises on Claire’s arm, though, where he grabbed her.”

He swallowed. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Allison assured, a flicker of a smile on her face. “John put some ointment on it. God! I feel so stupid!” 

Andy’s blond brows formed a perplexed V over his eyes. “Stupid? Why?”

Ally’s shoulders bobbed beneath her sweater. “I just stood there, Andy. He was hurting her, threatening Danielle, and I just stood there! I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even have a weapon. What kind of idiot doesn’t carry a weapon in Chicago?”

Wrapping an arm around her, Andy led her to the sofa, where he gently bade her sit down. When she did so, he lowered himself to sit beside her, grasped the hand in her lap with his. “Al, it’s okay—“ 

“No, it’s not—“ 

“Yes, it is,” he said, gazing into her face. “You’re only human. The guy has to be huge, right? What would you have done? I mean, without mace or anything.”

Ally gazed down at their entwined hands in her lap. “Yelled at him, maybe? I don’t know…” 

“Who knows what that jackass would’ve done?” the Sport replied, a stony mask sliding over his face. “I could kill him, though. I really could. How the hell did you guys get out of that?”

Allison barked a laugh that was partly humorous and partly incredulous. “Bender. Our Bender. He got a new knife, you know, after I stole his in high school?” Andy half-smirked, remembering. She’d never given the thing back to him; forcing the burnout to hunt it down. He'd found it in her room being used as a pushpin for one of her posters. “Snuck up behind him and threatened to stab his ass if he touched Claire or Danielle again. I swear, Andy, I’ve never seen him look so angry. And we’ve seen him look pretty angry.”

Andy cringed, recalling the various shades of Angry Bender he’d witnessed over the years. From mildly annoyed “I can’t get this beer cap open” to fire-breathing dragon. 

The Sport considered himself pretty laid back, but if some shithead dared to threaten Ally…

'I’d murder him with my bare hands. Rip his fucking head off.' 

He could very easily empathize with Bender’s all-encompassing rage this time. 

“I know,” Andy said, quirking his mouth. “He threatened to kill me once, remember?”

Ally snickered. “Nah, Claire wouldn’t have let him. But Jesus, Andy…”

Squeezing the hand in her lap, he asked her if either of them were planning on telling Laura Bender. Allison shook her head. “Claire’s afraid that if she found out, she’d go coo-coo for Coco Puffs. And fall off the wagon.”

The Sport scoffed. “So?”

His wife flashed him that famous Ally-smirk he loved so much. “I said the same thing. But if she ditched sobriety again, Bender would go gaga. And Claire already has her hands full. She can’t take care of an infant *and* a boyfriend who’s gone gaga.”

Andy nodded. That made sense. He couldn’t imagine, after years of living with someone who was addicted to all kinds of stuff, to watch her get straight, then have it all fucked again. And Bender had already been through it a few times. 

Plus, this was his mother. 

“How are they gonna hide it from her?”

“That is the question.”  
**  
John was not in a good way.

For days, he’d slunked around the apartment, angry, upset, and fucking horrified. Though he’d tried to hide it behind a mask of conviviality, he must not have been doing a decent job because damn near everyone noticed. Sporto and Basketcase, his coworkers, even fucking Brainiac half a country away had picked up on his depressive tone when he’d called from Baltimore yesterday. 

His ma, too, also perceived that something just wasn’t right with him. She repeatedly asked him if something was up, if everything was okay at work, if he’d had an argument with Claire. He kept assuring her that everything was fine. After…it…happened, that night, glum, John asked his girlfriend if she wanted to tell Laura about what’d happened. Last time, it was his call, but now Claire—and Dani, and Allison—had been caught up in the Jake Bender madness. If she wanted to let his ma know about Dear Ole Dad’s little visit, hell, if she wanted to throw Laura out on her ass, he wouldn’t contest it. John, of course, cared about his mother, worried that she was white-knuckling sobriety, constantly wary that she’d tip off the wagon. But, alas, his ma was part of his life Before. Before leaving Shermer. Before shacking up with Claire. Before Dani. 

John’s world was not the family he’d been born to anymore, but the family he was creating with Claire. 

Thus, they took priority in this situation. 

He loved his ma fiercely. But Claire and Dani were his responsibility now. He had to keep them safe. What kind of man would he be if he knowingly put them in danger?

It disheartened him, but he’d do what she asked. But Claire refused his offer; he tried to hide how much that relieved him. 

Big Bill had noticed, too, that his newest Junior Foreman was not exactly living up to his potential lately. So, his boss pulled him to the side one day at homebase and demanded he go home until “he got his shit sorted”. That was two days ago. John had still not gotten his shit sorted. 

Bender gazed into the master bedroom. Claire was asleep, curled up on his side of the bed. She’d been having nightmares the past few days—boy, could he relate there—that woke her up at odd hours. He was relieved to find her sleeping now, even if it was the middle of the day. She and Allison had shopped ‘til they dropped at the army surplus store the other day, stocking up on Tasers, canisters of mace, a couple of knives, and Kevlar vests. He’d gone with them as lookout, reluctant now to send Claire out on her own. He had the vague notion that, to the pimply-faced teenager working the register, they must’ve come off as weird survivalists or something. 

'I’d much rather be a weird survivalist going off the grid in the woods and living out of a treehouse than have to face this shit.' 

Well. *He* could probably handle it. But now his family was wrapped up in all the shit. That would not stand. 

Stepping lightly into the bedroom, he approached Claire’s slumbering form, curled up over the flannel bedspread in her black Calvins. He couldn’t imagine how she could be comfortable in those things, but whatever. Swallowing once, he gazed down at her angel’s face, long eyelashes fanned over her cheeks, swollen lips parted, red hair a mess. He smiled flickeringly, stroked her hand, then walked out of the room. 

In the living area, his still-ignorant mother was playing with Dani, clacking her feet together and murmuring some bullshit. Dani seemed to be enjoying the attention, so John took the opportunity to step outside on the balcony, the one just off the dining space. 

Lowering himself into one of Claire’s oversize outdoor wicker chairs, John pulled the pack of Marlboros from his jeans pocket, lit a match with his teeth, and allowed the smooth taste of tobacco to soothe his nerves and possibly blacken his lungs. 

He didn’t indulge much anymore—possible lung cancer was not a good look for a new dad—but every now and then, his body craved the nicotine. 

John puffed on his cigarette for a few minutes, thinking about nothing and everything. He would try to push thoughts of the confrontation with his old man out of his mind, but they’d inevitably return to wreak havoc on his psyche. Every time he pictured Jake daring to approach Claire and the kid…daring to *hurt* her…

Bender took another deep drag on the Marlboro to calm his shaking hand.

Another five minutes passed before he heard the door separating the dining nook from the balcony creep open. He expected Claire, but it was his mom, with Dani sitting on her arm, that walked through. Sighing, she sank down on a chair beside his, balancing the kid on her lap. John immediately put out the cigarette in the ashtray they kept out here.

“She wanted to get some fresh air,” his ma giggled, clapping Dani’s hands together. When she pulled away, the kid reached up and tugged on one of Laura’s dangly earrings. “Oh! Ow! Owww! Sweetie, that’s not a toy…”

Dani tugged harder. Laura cringed. 

John sniggered and dug inside one of his back pockets for the set of plastic keys he kept there. He always carried one of Dani’s toys around now. 

'Used to be I never leave home without my knife. Now I never leave home without Fisher-Price.' 

Dani leaned forward and grasped the toy he dangled in her face. She shook it a few times, then began to gnaw on the keyring. 

Laura reached up and fixed her earring. “Where’s Claire?”

“Sleeping,” Bender tried not to bite. Tried to keep the venom out of his voice. He coughed. “Napping, I mean.” 

His ma nodded. If she'd noticed his tone, she didn’t comment on it. “Poor girl hasn’t been sleepin’ well, right? Well, she needs it now.”

Bender’s lip twitched. 'She hasn’t been sleeping because she’s fucking terrified'. 

John glanced askance at his mother obliviously playing with his kid. He was angry and scared and he had a pounding headache. It was all he could not to lash out at her. But he had to remember that none of this was his ma’s fault. Just as he’d told her. *Jake* was the one skulking around their building, drunk as a skunk and high on God knew what. *Jake* was the one terrorizing his family. Jake was the jackhole here. 

Exhaling, he massaged his throbbing temples with his index fingers. 

On his ma’s lap, Dani reached for him, making little whining sounds. He smirked. Ah, if there was one thing, one person, that could snap him out of any funk! John lifted her off her grandmother’s leggings-clad lap and set her on his own. Satisfied, Dani leaned back against him, positioning the keyring like it was a steering wheel and she was about to drive this balcony away. 

“Slow down,” he drawled, looking down at her head. “You’ll make us crash.”

Laura laughed through her nose, reached over, and squeezed one of Dani’s hands. “Such a sweet, little thang. And she’s gonna make such a pretty flower girl when y’all get married!” 

John’s shoulders tensed. His ma’s words, as innocent as she’d presented them, stirred up that same old inner argument—to marry her and possibly risk turning into his old man, or not to and, well, he didn’t entirely know. How long would Claire conceivably wait for him? He figured she wanted to put down roots someday; she was that type. Probably been envisioning her wedding since she was five. They already had a kid, after all. But the thought, the mere idea, of becoming that asshole petrified him.

The notion that he could lose her, though…

Bender gazed out at the city before him, depressed. 

Absently fingering the diamond stud he still wore in his earlobe, he replied, voice soft, “I’d have to ask her first.”

His ma wasn’t looking at him, instead grinning into Dani’s face as she played with her keys. “I think Dani will be agreeable.”

John sighed. “I meant Claire.”

There was a momentary hesitation. Though he wasn’t looking at his ma, Bender could feel those icicle eyes of hers glaring a hole in his cheek. As a kid, he remembered, when Laura got mad, she got *really* mad; she gave no fucks. She had that patented Mom Glare down pat. Hell, sometimes even his old man left her alone when she turned that thing on him. 

John experienced the tingly pins and needles feeling one got when one was being observed. 

Then, Laura pushed over and smacked him on the arm. Hard. 

“Ow!” Bender cried, trying not to rub the spot and ignore the fact that a 42-year-old woman had just branded him. “Jesus. Ma!” 

Laura was glaring at him. Yet again in her presence, he felt like a fourteen-year-old who’d just been caught sneaking through his bedroom window. John’s s neck ducked. Like a fucking turtle. “Johnathon Edmond!”

He cringed. He didn’t know what he hated more—his full name or his ma’s Discipline Voice. 

“Are you tellin’ me that you haven’t asked that sweet girl to marry you yet?” Laura folded her arms over her chest and continued glaring daggers at him. 'Jeez, I almost forgot how pants-shittingly scary Ma can be when she puts her mind to it'. “What's the matter with you? Don’t you love her?”

That captured John’s attention completely, and his head spun to face her as if he’d been slapped. She may as well have demanded of him what color the sky was. Or if Iron Maiden was his favorite band. Or if Vernon and Rooney were dickheads. John’s entire being was wrapped up in Claire now. He didn’t know how *not* to love her. Fuck, he couldn’t rightly remember a time she wasn’t always a part of his life, a huge part, even though, technically, that would’ve been before March of ’84. 

He was damn near offended that she’d ask him that. 

“What?” he breathed, incredulous. “Of course I love her.”

“Then what are you waiting for? A written invitation?” she demanded. 

Bender exhaled slowly through puffed cheeks. This was the conversation he’d been dreading to have with his mother. 'Might as well get it over with. Rip off the fucking Band-Aid'. Staring straight ahead again, out into the late afternoon just being touched by dusk, he admitted, “I’m…afraid.” 

Like spitting out fricking nails, that confession. 

Laura’s arms unfolded, and her brow furrowed. Gone were the icicles in her eyes, the depths instead expressing confusion. “Afraid? Well, honey, what are you afraid of?”

'Honey.' She hadn’t called him that since he was a little boy. Made sense, he supposed. He kinda felt like one right now. “I don’t wanna end up like Dad.”

There. He’d said it. Ripped off that Band-Aid. Stuck his head beneath the guillotine. Now, he was just waiting for his ma to drop the blade and cut his head off. 

The mystification was still plainly in her eyes, but now they looked surprised, too. “Why would you think you’re gonna end up like your father?”

John huffed, laughing without humor. In his lap, Dani was burbling a melody only she understood. “Isn’t this the same thing that happened to you? Both of you? I mean…” He threw one hand in the air in a vague, helpless gesture while the other balanced the kid. “…this is what happened, right? You and Dad were dating, and then, bam, you got knocked up with yours truly. It couldn’t have been that bad before. There had to be *something* about the old man that drew you to him originally.”

There. Another fucking Band-Aid. The assertion that he hadn’t voiced aloud to anyone, even to Claire. The theory that had been percolating in his head since he was old enough to understand that his father was a huge piece of shit. 

And now it was out. In the air. Floating before him like a tangible thing. Like those think-bubbles in comic books. 

Beside him, Laura winced, then sighed, her shoulders deflating as if from under a cumbersome weight. The absolutely defeated look on her face made John immediately wish he could rewind time and take his words back. 

“Oh, Johnny,” she murmured. Leaning to the side, she lightly brushed the top of his gloveless hand with hers. “Listen to me. There were *a lot* of red flags when your daddy and I were dating.”

That, he admitted, he hadn’t expected. Brows coming down over his eyes, John said, “There were?”

His ma nodded, a corner of her mouth quirking—perhaps ruefully. “Yep. Redder than the flag hangin’ over the Reichstag at the end of the Battle of Berlin.”

Bender had to chuckle at that. His ma had been a history major in college. She’d been on track to get a teaching degree when she’d been forced to drop out. 

Because of him. 'Yet another thing that’s my fault'. 

She continued, now gazing out into the darkening cityscape. “Your father was always mean and, boy howdy, pretty dang racist. He always said he’d never work with my daddy in a million years.” A humorless laugh. “Not that he would’a ever gone near Jake with a 100-foot pole.”

That confused him for a second until he remembered that his grandfather was of the Jewish persuasion. John scoffed, revolted but not surprised. At all. Hadn’t his old man thrown the slurs around whenever Ty was hanging out?

“He was cruel, too,” his ma went on; her expression was one he knew he himself wore whenever he was lost Back There. “Once, he broke up with me just to ‘see what it was like’, as he told me. I was a dang zombie for two days. Until he showed up at my dorm, laughin’, assurin’ me he was joking. He’d promise me he’d pick me up from work, then forget. I had to walk all the way back to the dorms. And I worked at the grocery store. It was a three-mile walk.”

'Jesus. He’s more of a dick than I even knew'. John shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He was both angry and stunned. “So, Ma—then…why?”

His mother’s shoulders bobbed beneath the shaggy lavender sweater she’d borrowed from Claire. He remembered he once told her she looked like a psychedelic sheepdog in it. “It’s dumb.”

“Try me.”

Laura turned to look him in the face once more. Her visage was a bit embarrassed, in that “What ya gonna do?” way. “Well. I know he don’t look like much now, but back then, your daddy was really somethin’. The cat’s meow, as the girls said.”

John winced. That reminded him, oh yeah, he looked just like the old man when he’d been his age. He hoped that meant he wasn’t destined to be a pudgy loser with Tricky Dick jowls. 

He shuddered, glad that he’d cut down on the alcohol intake. 

“He was the most popular guy on campus,” Laura went on. 

“Dad went to college?” He hadn’t known that.

But his ma shook her head. “Naw. He tended at the hole-in-the-wall campus bar. All the girls loved him. He was tall and good-lookin’, like a dark James Dean. And he sang in a rock band. You know, back when rock n’roll was just getting popular.” 

That, too, made John cringe. Like his old man’s looks, he’d also inherited the dude’s musicality. He could play the guitar, just like Jake had—in fact, it was Jake who’d originally taught him, in some of those increasingly rare non-shithead moments—and he could sing, he knew he could. John pretended otherwise, mostly because using his voice reminded him of where he’d gotten it from, so most of his friends thought he sounded like a dying hummingbird. Only Claire knew, and some of his old bandmates back in Shermer. Claire and Dani. Sometimes, he strummed and sang her to sleep. 

“He could’ve had his pick,” Laura continued. “But it was me he wanted. Me—little, ole Laura Myerson from Knoxville.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, I think he liked my accent. Anyway, we began datin’. My roommate hated him, thought he was a prick. My parents, who’d met him twice during parents’ weekend, hated him more. That just made me more determined, a’course. But there was always somethin’.” She patted his hand again. “Your father was always a shit. You’re a good boy, Johnny. A good *man*. You’re not gonna turn into *him*.”

Bender gnawed on his lower lip, deep in thought, unconsciously mimicking one of Claire’s mannerisms. Laura scoffed. “’Sides, it ain’t like you bolted when Dani here came out a Danielle instead of a Daniel.” 

That, too, got his attention. He picked his head up to regard her. “What do you mean?”

Laura was shaking her head, blonde hair whapping her jaw. “Oh, when I told him I was pregnant, at first, he broke up with me for real. My parents were so happy; they wanted me to come back home where I could raise the baby—you—with them. But it wasn’t long before your daddy had a change of heart. Showed up at the dorm cryin’ and beggin’ me for another chance. He got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.” A rueful laugh. “Of course, I said yes. We had a quickie wedding when I was five months along.”

That, John had known. The old black and white picture of Laura and Jake taken in front of the chapel on their wedding day had rested in a wooden frame on the mantle for as long as he could recollect. It was how he knew what his old man had looked like way back when. They both looked happy, smiling. His father wore sunglasses and a leather jacket, his hair all pomaded like John Travolta’s in 'Grease'. His mom, blonde hair shining, wore a white sundress—or maybe it was yellow—that was patterned in tiny flowers. Her growing baby bump was clearly visible beneath the fabric. 

Him. *He* was that baby bump. 

“But the honeymoon phase didn’t last long,” she said, sounding almost regretful. Or maybe just sad. “Within a few weeks, he was mutterin’ ‘That baby better be a boy, or I’m outta here!’ For four months, he said that. And I would pray and pray and pray, ‘Oh Lord, please let this child be a male one so he don’t change his mind!’” She smiled at him, then, the first genuine beam she wore all through this harrowing and overdue conversation. “And then October came and you were born! My beautiful little boy.”

Bender ducked his head. Sometimes, it was hard to believe that he’d ever been that kid, his mom’s 'beautiful little boy'. 

“Your daddy was so excited,” Laura went on, chuckling. “He was gonna take you huntin’ and fishin’ and…all this stuff.”

When John swallowed, it felt like he was gargling sandpaper. “He did,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Um, once or twice. Took me up to this campsite. We brought home a deer.”

He’d been nine. It was the first time he’d ever used a weapon. His dad had been remarkably patient in teaching him, too. 

What the fuck had happened to the asshole?

His ma nodded. “I remember. We had venison for days.” She sighed. “Your daddy had his moments, Johnny, but he was always a jackass. He just had that in him from the start. I…I know I haven’t been a real part of your life for quite a while, but a blind man can see that you’d never hurt those girls.”

John gazed down at the top of Dani’s curly red head. She was mid-yawn, her eyes were drooping. It was about time for her nap. “No. I’d jump off the building first.”

And he would, too. He didn’t need his ma to tell him that.

Laura bobbed her head, the corners of her mouth ticked upwards. “I know. And I’m sure Claire knows. She’s stuck by you all these years, hasn’t she?”

How many times had his princess tried to assure him that he’d never become his father? That she wasn’t worried for a second, about either herself or leaving Dani alone with him?

He wished he had that sort of confidence in his own damn self. 

His ma rose from her chair. “So, you best get a move on. That girl won’t wait for you forever. And she’s a catch. Some rich asshole will scoop her right up.”

John watched while Laura turned around and went back inside. Staring down at Dani sleeping against his chest, he leaned back in the wicker seat. Now, he had a lot to think about.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I also have a thing for war movies (a fact that I'm sure surprises no one). I was watching The Great Escape on TCM when I wrote this part. You always know an older war pic. The actors never curse. It's the frigging military, they're at WAR, they're being shot at daily. They're GONNA curse.
> 
> Note 2: The park Claire and Allison are in is modeled after the one that was directly across the street from my old high school. It was lovely during the spring, hot as hell during summer, freezing during winter, and allergen-inducing during fall. Every season, somehow, was rife with goose poop. We used to practice running laps around the manmade lake there. Place had the meanest swans and the most determined geese.
> 
> Note 3: Allison could star in her own horror franchise called "I'm Watching You, Bitch".
> 
> Note 4: I'm thinking maybe Al Pacino for Mr. Bender? Just a slightly more beer bellied one? I guess? He was supposed to have been really good-looking, if a piece of utter shit, in his youth. And ole Al was sexy af in The Godfather #justsayin
> 
> Note 5: Claire, as someone who has never had to stand up to her father, who has put her mother in her place when necessary (and it won't give her a startling migraine to do so), who never has to apologize for who she is or where she comes from (at least back in the 80s, when Reaganomics had everyone worshiping capitalism and trickle-down), who has never had a hand raised against her in anger, would have less of a problem than John, I think, facing down someone like Jake, even if he intimidates her.
> 
> Note 6: Lol phonebook
> 
> Note 7: Those crap stunts Young Jake pulls on Young Laura actually happened to a friend of mine. Her ex-husband pulled that shit all the time. There;s a reason he's her ex. Yes, I got her permish to use it.


	38. Chapter 37: Impulsive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aloha! I am trying to make these a wee bit longer since we're all stuck inside. It's either I write or I watch Netflix or I find new and innovative ways to kill my Sims.

Chapter 37: Impulsive

Danielle wouldn’t sleep again.

In bed, Claire groaned, rolling over. She hadn’t been sleeping well the past week or so, ever since her encounter with John’s father. Nightmares plagued her, images flashing through her subconscious—Jake’s grinning face, the burn scar on John’s inner arm, her baby fearfully looking up at the man who was purported to be her grandfather. She would wake with a start and venture out into the living room or the balcony, either puffing on one of John’s joints or digging through the freezer for her emergency pint of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. 

If Jake Bender was haunting her after just one incident, she couldn’t imagine the hell John had gone through—and would always go through—with eighteen years of those not-so-happy recollections stored up in his head. 

The past few days, she’d been falling asleep midday after rolling around all night, caught up in her bad dreams. Claire hadn’t exactly been getting sufficient beauty rest lately. And now her baby was refusing to go down, yet again. 

John moaned and turned up the monitor. Laura was doing her best to calm the infant down, but it was thundering again, and Danielle was not a fan. 

“Oh, honey! Come on. Please go to sleep,” entreated Laura through the monitor’s speakers. 

Danielle continued to cry. 

Claire folded the fluffy white pillow around her ears. “I don’t understand. I just fed her an hour ago!” That usually pacified her. 

John grunted once more and, after rolling over a few times, seemed to give up. He bolted up in bed, dark hair falling into his face, obscuring his eyes. To Claire, he looked like Cousin It. She giggled. One hand rose to push his hair back, and he glared balefully at her. This only made Claire laugh harder. 

“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up,” he muttered, throwing off the covers and pulling himself out of bed. For a minute, he simply stood slumped over in the middle of the bedroom, clad in his blue and white striped boxers and gray Clash t-shirt. He was practically asleep on his feet. 

Claire glanced out the partially ajar bedroom door. “What are you gonna do?”

John shook his head, as though clearing it, slugged across the room, and grasped his acoustic guitar leaning against a wall in the corner. “Drastic times call for drastic measures.”

And he dragged himself out of the bedroom, the guitar dragging behind him like a dragon’s tail. 

Claire dropped back to the mattress, her head slamming into her comfy pillow. Over the monitor, Laura’s Tennessee twang intermixed with John’s deeper baritone. There was the shuffling of fabric, the creak of bare feet trotting the floor, then a muted squeak whilst Laura sank into the cot. 

Over the speakers, John cleared his throat, his words slightly tinny and echoing. “All right, kid. Hopefully, this takes you to the Land of Nod because you’re driving your ma, your grandmother, and me nuts.”

On the other end, Danielle whined. Claire smiled tiredly. 

There was a clatter as John dragged the rocking chair he’d fashioned to the crib. Laura’s slightly faraway voice sighed, “I can’t believe you really made that. It’s beautiful.”

John strummed the guitar. She could plainly make out the embarrassed pleasure in his tone. “Yeah, well. Claire needed a rocking chair.”

And then, she recognized the beginning chords of Queen’s “Hammer to Fall”. 

“Yeah, here we stand or here we fall  
History won’t care at all  
Make the bed, make the light  
Lady Mercy won’t be home tonight” 

Claire’s soft smile broadened. John didn’t go around telling people that he actually had a decent voice; she knew that he’d inherited the ability to sing from his father. So, he rarely indulged. She figured the mere act of singing put him right Back There. It was enough he was a dead-ringer for his dad in his youth; he didn’t need to be reminded that he *sounded* like him, too. 

Only she, Laura, and his old bandmates from Shermer (they were called Tricky Dick Vernon; Claire snickered remembering all five of them performing in leisure suits), including Ty, knew what he could do. Whenever any of the other Club members gathered for one of his gigs, he was either on bass or acoustic. He just didn’t like showing off that particular gift. It was a shame, Claire thought. He really did have a nice, easy voice. 

Danielle thought so, too. After Claire pushed herself off the bed and walked across the hall to the nursery, she leaned against the doorjamb to watch him, that same ghost of a beam on her face. Their infant was listening acutely, her attention rapt, her eyes big in their sockets. The few times John had played for her, it’d never failed to soothe. 

“Oh every night and every day  
A little piece of you is falling away  
But lift your face the western way  
Build your muscles as your body decays, yeah”

Laura, too, was silently observing, pride shining in her gaze. She scooted back on the cot and leaned against the wall behind her, knees to her chest, arms around her legs. 

Claire crossed her arms over her chest and her eyelids fluttered closed.

“What the hell are we fighting for?  
Ah, just surrender and it won’t hurt at all  
You just got time to say your prayers  
Yeah, while you’re waiting for the hammer to, hammer to fall”

When he was finished, the last chord zinged in the air, and Danielle was fast asleep. Claire trod inside the nursery and gently placed her pacifier back in her mouth, which had fallen out during her latest crying jag. 

Back in the bedroom, Claire turned over to regard him, facing her, both their heads flat on their respective pillows. Reaching up, she curled a bit of that wild hair behind his ear. “You should sing more. You’re good at it.”

John’s quirk of the lips was rueful. “You know why I don’t.” 

“Just for Danielle, then,” she added, pecking him then turning over to go to bed. “Don’t let your father take that away from you, too.”

Claire felt John’s eyes on the back of her neck for another good minute before she heard him roll over and go to sleep.  
**  
“Man, we’ve been here for four hours. Just pick one!”

Bender glared at him, at all of them, even Brian on the phone, and marched across the skinny, lacquered hallway to the nearest Kay Jewelers. 

Andy sigh-laughed, raking a hand through his blond hair. Bender had, without warning, shown up at his and Ally’s apartment in Millennium Park one afternoon just as he’d gotten home from work. Allison was still at the YMCA teaching her beginner level class, so it was just him lounging around watching "Donahue". He was home by 4:40. At five, Bender was pounding on his door—Andy knew it had to be Bender; the guy had a very specific knock—and demanding to be let in. Andy, thinking something was wrong or his asshole of a father had shown up again, immediately pushed up from the couch and threw open the door.

“What’s going on?” Andy asked, concerned, whilst the burnout stormed into the living room.

Bender spun to face him, an interesting combination of frustration and anxiety plainly reflected in his face. “I am in need of your assistance, Sporto.” 

Andy’s eyebrows rose to his hairline in amused surprise. 

And that was why they were here today. It was Sunday, the 29th of April, and it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. Birds were singing. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He would’ve liked to be outside, possibly at a court somewhere shooting hoops or playing racquetball. Or maybe jogging around the park. Instead, he was here, in the Northbrook Mall, the fourth one they’d visited all weekend. And that didn’t take into account the innumerable stores on Michigan they’d patronized. 

Bender was going to propose to Claire. 'Fucking finally, Jesus'. And the guy needed just the right ring to do it with. 

Quietly watching the burnout, who exemplified that “I don’t give a shit” aura, meticulously scanning the engagement ring offerings of jewelry store after jewelry store and declaring them all not good enough was rather entertaining. 

“Dude. If we have to stay here much longer, I will steal that car and drive the hell out of Dodge.”

Beside him, Stubbie—recently returned from San Antonio, a proposed three-day job for Eleanor that had turned into a three-week long vacation—gestured to the red ’90 Corvette on display outside Brookstone. Andy, too, was this close to collapsing into one of the store’s leather massage chairs and calling it a day. 

“Well. I learned something today,” Ferris Bueller, dressed with his usual flamboyance in a bright red oxford and zebra-print vest, said, smirking. “Who knew that John Bender could be picky?” 

“I did,” Brian’s tinny voice answered over Andy’s awesome mobile phone. 'Eh. Maybe not so awesome'. Brian was only coming through in spurts, and Andy would have a helluva long distance phone bill after this, but the whole venture didn’t feel right without Brian’s input. So he’d called him. “At least when it comes to movies and music. S—standing around awkwardly while Bender scans the aisles at record store after record store is my…my version of Hell.” 

Ty, leaning against the translucent railing, chuckled. “Yeah, that’s him, all right. Songwriting, too. Back in the ol’ Tricky Dick Vernon days, he’d go over every original song with a fine-tooth comb. It couldn’t be performed without his say-so.” 

Andy snickered. 'Tricky Dick Vernon.' 

“Johnathon’s a stubborn ass,” Claire’s brother affirmed, checking out the gift he’d bought for his boyfriend’s birthday. “We knew this. Just like my sister. Danielle is gonna grow up telling everyone to go fuck themselves.” 

Stubbie scoffed. “Please. She’ll be doing that as soon as she can form sentences.”

Across the corridor, in the Kay Jewelers nearest the elevator that led to the cafeteria—'Damn, I could really go for some Panda Express right now'—Bender was crouched before the display case, diligently examining the contents therein. The snooty-looking sales rep behind the desk was glaring down his nose at him. 

Andy exhaled and crossed the hall to join him. Bender was squatting on the heels of his black Converse, clearly frowning. “Find anything yet?”

“No.” He rose to his full height, sneered at the sales rep, then went to plunk himself down on the nearest wooden bench. From the vantage, Andy could see into Spencer’s. A guy in a “Frankie Says Relax” t-shirt was trying to convince his girlfriend to buy a pair of edible underwear. 

Andy lowered himself to sit beside him. Loitering in front of the Brookstone, the other guys shrugged and followed. On the phone, Brian and Jackie were arguing about her having eaten his bag of sour gummy worms. 

Bender continued, huffing. “All this freaking shit looks the same to me.” He sighed and glanced at Andy out the corner of his eye. “How the hell did you know what ring to get Basketcase?”

The Sport’s shoulders bobbed, crunching on a potato chip from a huge bag he’d bought at the mall’s CVS. “Oh, that was easy. I knew Ally wouldn’t want something too traditional—“ 

A snort. “No kidding.”

“—so I looked around a few places, but when I saw the onyx ring, I knew right away it had to be hers,” he continued, pointedly ignoring the burnout’s interruption. “It practically had her name carved into it already.”

Now, his wife had “Mrs. Clark” etched alongside the metal of the ring.

Bender’s lips quirked, and he raked both hands through his hair. “Well. I guess I’m trying to find…that. You know, something that screams ‘Claire’. I don’t wanna get her any old fucking thing. Fuck knows she has enough meaningless sparkly baubles.”

Stubbie, his back now braced against the skinny trunk of a potted bonsai tree across from the bench, folded his arms and grinned. “What do you get the girl who has everything?”

Bender scoffed. “Pretty much.” 

Ty, on Stubbie’s right, popped open a can of that Josta stuff he liked so much. “I’m sure she ain’t expecting the Hope Diamond from you, bro.” 

“Hey, that’s an idea,” the burnout said. “She doesn’t have one of those. Maybe I’ll lift the damn thing.” 

Ferris cackled. “You’d have to go to DC and slip it out of the Natural History Museum of Natural History.”

Ty wrinkled his nose. “The Natural History Museum of Natural History? What the hell kinda name for a museum is that? I guess this weekend I’ll take Megan to the Baking Museum of Baking Stuff.” 

Andy snickered. 

“The Redundant Exhibition of Redundancy,” Josh added, and they all broke up laughing. Even Bender smirked, rife as he was with indecision. 

On the phone, Bri and Jackie were still squabbling about his gummy worms. 'I’m glad I’m spending a fortune for this call'. 

Bender’s gaze flicked to Ferris, who was perusing a kiosk of “As Seen on TV!” crap. He was quite interested in a newfangled spyware camera that could be plugged anywhere. “Yo, Bueller. What’d you get Sloane?”

Ferris did not glance up from the tiny, button-sized camera he was examining. He asked the guy behind the counter something in…Andy thought it was Mandarin, to which the elderly cashier answered back rapid fire. “Ah, my Sloane’s got a thing for dolphins. So I picked her up—“ 

“Flipper?”

The erstwhile most popular kid at Shermer High’s stare slid to the burnout, annoyed. Bender was chuckling. “—a ring that *looks* like the aquatic mammal, John. I wouldn’t buy her a real dolphin.” A pause. “Actually, we *are* installing a pool…” 

Back on the line, Bri’s reedy, slightly aggravated voice blared through the speaker. 'He really loves those gummy worms'. “You should…you should get her som—something more personal, John. It, um, doesn’t have to cost a load.” 

Bender jeered. “Yeah, but what? I know she likes sapphires, but she has so much sapphire shit. I could get her something with her birthstone, but that seems cliché. ‘Sides, it’s zirconia. I don’t wanna get a fucking zirconia ring. Jesus.” Andy watched whilst he buried his face in his hands. “I never knew this could be so damn hard.”

The Sport stood and gazed down at the top of his friend’s dark head. “Well…what else, then?”

Josh was examining his nailbeds. “My sister’s always liked zebras. And war movies.”

Bender didn’t take his hands down but grunted behind his fingers. “Right. I’ll just get her a zebra-print engagement ring. Or maybe a lovely diamond-speckled grenade.”

There was a beat of silence, then the hands slowly came down. Bender picked his head up, a spark of…something in his face. “Wait…”

Andy’s gaze slid to regard him. “What?”

“I think I’ve got an idea.”  
**  
Claire was about to have a panic attack. 

The master bedroom looked like a hurricane had passed through it. It all started innocently, confusingly, enough. First, when she’d figured that she’d simply buried it under a mountain of scrunchies or something, Claire had nonchalantly searched through her jewelry box, the one with the spinning ballerina made out of porcelain she’d had since she was three. When the item in question failed to turn up there, that was when a prickle of real fear caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand upright. Her pace increased as she searched the contents of the vanity, then the dresser, the bookshelf, under the bed, inside the closet. She’d even checked Pete’s habitat. Had he eaten it? Claire couldn’t imagine how he’d have gotten his scales on it!

Now, here she was in a far corner of the room, her and John’s worldly possessions scattered about the floor. Everything from her cashmere sweaters to his boots to her makeup compacts to his cassette tapes littered the blond wood surface. There also teetered piles of crap on top of the bed itself, inside the Bart Bassinet, draped over the lamps. In desperate frustration, Claire had hurled a jacket in the air; it landed arrayed over a framed photograph of the two of them on the opposite wall. 

Where the hell *was* it?!

Increasingly frantic, Claire uncaringly pitched piece of crap after piece of crap over her shoulder. All that mattered right now was finding it.

Her diamond earring. The mate of the one she’d given John six years previous. The one he still wore in his ear. She took hers out at night because she was paranoid about it falling out of her lobe, but she always, without fail, put it back in the following morning. 

And she’d ended up losing the frigging thing anyway!

Pulling herself to a standing position, Claire paced away from the open closet and back to the dresser. For the fifth time, she frantically searched through drawer after drawer, pushing aside John’s socks and wrinkling her blouses. She didn’t care. 

When she came up earring-less again, Claire stepped back, ran a hand through her wild red hair, and sobbed. 

'Oh, my God, where is it?!'

That pair of outrageously expensive stud earrings, gifted to her by her father for Christmas ’83, was the first thing she and John had ever shared. It was the first thing she’d given him. Those earrings, once simply pretty trinkets, now *represented* something. They had a deeper meaning. They epitomized their whole relationship!

Now, one was missing. What the hell did *that* say?!

Lowering herself to her knees for the nth time that afternoon, Claire scanned the floor beneath the vanity, the desk, the dresser, the bed. Feeling along the dusty surface. It was gone! Just gone! 

Rising to her feet, Claire shuffled to the bed, perched on the edge, and buried her face in her hands. 

She heard the bedroom door creak open, and there Laura was with a squirming Danielle clutched in her arms. “I got nothin’, hon. I’m sorry.”

Another cry tore from Claire’s throat. While she’d been busy tearing the bedroom upside down, Laura had perused the other rooms. The bathroom, the nursery, the living room. Claire could distinctly recall unscrewing the earring the night before and leaving it in its place of honor—a transparent pouch sewn inside her jewelry box—but, as John said, desperate times called for desperate measures. 

Laura came to sit beside her on the mattress. “Can you get another one? A replacement?”

Claire lowered her hands and stared at her. Of course she could. But… “It wouldn’t be the same! How could it just…disappear?! I’ve been putting it in the same place every night for over six years. Every. Night! It’s like someone stole it!”

A brief…something flashed in Laura’s eyes, and Claire considered the disingenuous notion that *she* had stolen it. To pay for drugs or alcohol. 

Instantly, she felt terrible, and the thought was gone as quickly as it’d come. Laura wouldn’t do that. 

Right? 

'Right! Of course not!'

In her grandmother’s embrace, Danielle reached over and tugged on a strand of Claire’s hair. That made her smile, at least, and she kissed her daughter’s forehead. 

The smile vanished when the front door opened and John’s heavy, clopping footfalls echoed on the hallway floor. How the hell was she going to tell him that part of their *thing* was gone?!

John walked into the bedroom, shrugging off his jacket. His tired façade melted into one of concern when he took them in seated on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on?”

Claire traded a look with Laura, sniffed, then rose and threw her arms around his neck. John’s body tensed, obviously bewildered, before folding himself around her. “Oh, John, it’s missing!”

Pulling back, he looked into her face. “What’s missing?”

“My earring!” she cried, finger automatically levitating to her naked earlobe. “I put it right here every night before bed!” Crossing to the jewelry box, she pointed to the transparent pocket. “And now it’s gone! I’ve been looking for it all day!”

John glanced at his mother over her shoulder, then back to her. Had he also entertained the same notion she had? “Okay, okay. When did you take it off last night?”

Claire’s gaze ticked to the sparkly stud firmly screwed in his lobe. “Just before we went to sleep. Around 11:40? Oh, God. I swear I put it in that pouch. I always do!”

“Claire—“

“It’s ours and it’s gone!” she cried. 

John sighed, pursed his lips, then brought her to his chest again, one hand smoothing down her wayward hair. “Don’t fret, princess. I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

Claire pulled just far enough away to gaze into his face. Her own, she knew, was damp from the salty tears trickling out of her eyes and down her cheeks. “Do you really think so?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Burying her head in the side of his neck, she felt a palm slide up and down her spine, comfortingly spanning her back, and she closed her eyes, hoping he was right.  
**  
John felt bad, truly, he did. Claire had been depressed all week as she futilely searched for the “missing” earring. A part of him hated himself for knowingly putting her through this. But, alas, it was necessary he remain mum. Before snatching it whilst she was in the shower, just before she went to bed that night, he’d considered ruses, some sort of excuse or another that she’d buy for his suddenly requiring the thing. But he couldn’t come up with anything plausible, so he’d admitted defeat and hid it in his wallet. Where he then dropped it off at the Zales on Michigan after work. The blonde lady behind the counter assured him that it’d be finished within the week. 

Five days later, he’d picked up the finished product, quite impressed. The stud had been recut into a square shape. On either side, flanking the diamond, were the two tiny sapphire gems he’d picked out. The ring itself was white gold. It had cost a pretty penny, but, you know, if he was really going to do this, he was damn sure going to do it right. 

This meaning “proposing to Claire”. 

Even still, nearly two weeks after he’d come to this decision, the idea petrified him. The old anxiety kept rearing its ugly, unwelcome head. Echo after echo of his old man’s voice bouncing against his skull, taunting him, torturing him. 'You’re a Bender, Johnny. You’re just like me. You’ll never be any good, and yer just gonna end up hurtin’ her'. A few times, he’d even second-guessed himself. It required his mother’s continued reassurance to get him back on track. 

Now, John was determined. He was looking at this like it was a particularly difficult game of Madden. He was going to reach the end zone and score that touchdown, by hook or crook! 

The ring—nestled inside the simple black velvet box he’d chosen—burnt a hole in his pocket when he brought it home. He kept it hidden inside a place he knew Claire would never look—in the little fridge in the back of their closet, the one that he used to house Pete’s “dinner”. The dead rats. 

Chuckling, he plucked one of those rats out now, removed it from its protective bag, and dropped it inside Pete’s habitat. The snake instantly uncoiled himself from around his little branch, opened his maw, and swallowed the thing whole. 

“Bon appétit, buddy,” he said, patting the top of the tank. Pete stared at him as if in thanks. 

“I can’t find my eyeliner,” his oblivious princess muttered from her vanity, one hand splayed on the surface and the other sifting through her makeup bag. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Have you seen my eyeliner?”

John turned from Pete’s habitat. “What, exactly, would I be doing with your eyeliner, Cherry? I’m a rebel, not a goth.” 

Claire rolled her eyes and returned to the makeup bag. “I guess I’m going to have to borrow some of Allison’s black shit.” 

It’d been two days since he picked up the ring from the jeweler. For a day or two after his decision, he’d agonized exactly how to do this. John definitely did *not* want to go the Sport’s route, renting a hot air balloon and popping the question over some field at sunset or whatever, how cliché, how sappy. Jockstrap suggested that he take her to a game—any game—and ask over the Jumbotron. The last thing he wanted was to put Claire on the spot in front of millions of viewers, so he exnayed that real quick. Bueller thought it’d be *romantic* and very Chicago if he asked her atop the Sears Tower. He could not conceive of an excuse to get Claire there other than claiming that the building’s top floor was hosting a Bloomingdale’s sample sale. She would not believe that; she knew where all the sample sales in the city were held. 

It was Brainiac who suggested the beach—and, surprisingly, he actually rather liked the idea. Claire had been getting increasingly despondent over her earring, and he wanted to distract her from her woe. So, he used that as an excuse to whisk her away from the Mile. He booked a room in the same hotel on Lake Michigan they’d gone to last time—where she had spent the whole vacation sick and abed after attempting to tan her untanable skin for hours—telling her that this was a sort of “do over”. 

Having an infant, too, they hadn’t exactly had much time to themselves, or to acknowledge their six year, so Claire readily agreed. She’d offered to pay for it, but there was no way he was riding on Rich’s coattails for this. Even if it meant that he’d have to book a shittier room. 

Laura had flown down to Knoxville to see her parents—at Claire’s suggestion and John’s urging—so Allison and Sporto were going to be watching the kid. John had persuaded them to remain here so they could play “We Didn’t Start the Fire” all day for Danielle and drive Mrs. Lowing next door nuts. 

They were just getting ready to leave. Claire had piled most of her suitcases in the living room. John’s single duffle bag lay parted on the bed as he stuffed his sneakers inside it. 

“I can’t believe you’re only taking one bag,” Claire scoffed, capping one of her many lipsticks. In her depth-defying purse lay the faux-lipstick Taser she’d purchased at the army surplus store. Luckily, she hadn’t needed to use it. Yet. 

John shoved a couple of t-shirts and a sweatshirt inside and zippered the bag closed. “And I can’t believe you’re taking three for a four-day vacation. Oh, wait. Yes, I can.”

Claire spun from the vanity and folded her hands over her hips. “It’s better to be prepared.” 

John rolled his eyes and shouldered the duffle. “Claire. We’re going to Lake Michigan, not Rome.” 

“You never know what you might need.” 

John shook his head, reached into the closet mini-fridge as though he was merely looking for something, and discreetly pocketed the cold as fuck box. 

Out in the living room, Basketcase, dressed in her usual head-to-toe black, held Dani against her shoulder. Sporto was rifling through the fridge in the kitchen. Probably to determine whether they harbored enough sustenance to satisfy the endlessly hungry athlete. 

Claire bent to pick up one of her pink suitcases. John took the rest, groaning. 'The fuck does she have in here, barbells?' He glared at her, to which she merely shrugged. 

“Okay,” Claire began her lecture. “I put a list of emergency numbers on the fridge; it’s under the Bart Simpson magnet. There’s the number of the hotel, the police, Poison Control, local hospitals and jails, my parents’ number, Josh’s number, Ty and Megan’s number, Stubbie’s number, 911—“ 

Basketcase hefted Dani higher in her arms and gawked at her, plainly amused. “You included the number for 911? Isn’t it just…911?” 

His princess scowled. “It’s the longest I’ve been away from her since she was born. Leave me alone.” 

Allison snickered. Sporto slammed the fridge shut and walked back into the living room. “We’re gonna need more stuff. There isn’t even any frozen pizza here!” He glanced at them. “How the hell do you guys not have any frozen pizza?!”

Claire snorted. “I don’t eat that crap, and John ate the last of his.”

Andy gawked at her like she had a screw loose. 

Stepping forward, Claire took the baby in her embrace and pressed kiss after kiss to her chubby cheek. “Oh, sweetie! You be good for Uncle Andy and Aunt Ally, okay?”

In response, Dani merely blinked and tugged on one of Claire’s earrings. She winced.

John, Sporto, and Basketcase sniggered. “She likes to pull,” John explained, reaching forward to rub a hand down Dani’s back. 

“Make sure she gets to sleep at seven at the latest,” Claire continued. “Or else she’ll never go down. She gets up to eat at 6:45. She needs to be fed every two hours. We should have enough formula, but if you need to buy more, only get Gerber’s. And give her that PediaLife stuff once a day. Her flu’s gone, but Dr. Devers suggested she keep taking it for the next few months.” 

“Got it,” Allison said, then held out her hands to receive Dani once more. Claire hesitated. 

John took the baby from her, kissed her once, and passed her to Allison. “Claire. We’re leaving for a few days, not a decade.” 

She sighed. “I know, but…still.” Beaming into the kid’s confused face, she pecked her two more times. “We’re gonna miss you! Are you gonna miss us? Hmm?”

Predictably, Dani simply blinked. Laughing through his nose, John ruffled the downy hair on her head. “You don’t have to answer that. Be good. Try not to puke all over Sporto again.”

Andy frowned and shucked off the recently deep-cleaned Shermer High jacket. Allison guffawed. 

It was as they were walking out the front door that Dani started crying, perceptibly understanding that her parents weren’t just going out for a minute. The kid’s chubby fingers reached out, pinching the air, her face all red and squishy. It tugged at John’s heart, but he’d known this would happen. 

Claire’s entire face collapsed. “Oh, John! She thinks we’re abandoning her!”

He shook his head. “Claire, she’s just a baby. And she’ll be fine.”

“But—“ 

“She’ll be *fine*,” John reiterated, gesturing to Andy and Allison in the middle of the living room. “Sporto and Basketcase will take care of her. Come on, we have to check in by tonight.” 

Claire pouted, blew Dani one more kiss, and they left.  
**  
Once the new parents left, Allison and Andy got to work attempting to keep Danielle entertained and get her mind off her missing folks. Andy demonstrated for her how to make a paper football. Allison took the plastic mallet between her toes and banged out “Heart and Soul” on the Fisher-Price xylophone. They watched a taped episode of "Sesame Street", which nearly had Ally snoring in boredom, and blasted “We Didn’t Start the Fire” and “The Wheels on the Bus” for forty-five minutes straight. Then, Ally climbed inside Danielle’s playpen and watched as the baby fiddled with her See N’ Say. 

'The cow says moo, indeed'. 

Allison needed to get her a cooler one of these things. Like a JFK conspiracy-themed one. 'John Kennedy says ‘"Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country". Edward Kennedy says "There has to be more to it". Lyndon B. Johnson says "JFK was trying to get Castro, but Castro got to him first". Lee Harvey Oswald’s Carcano infantry rifle says "Bang, bang!"’ 

Snickering, Allison took the See N’ Say from Danielle and wound it herself. ‘The frog says ribbit’. 

'I like my idea better'. 

Just before the infant went down for the evening, Ally introduced her to her favorite cartoon. 

“This was my favorite show when I was a kid,” she narrated, gesturing to the blaring Panasonic. 

"Scooby Doo". Allison remembered gawking at the adventures of the Scooby Gang just like Danielle was now, with wide eyes and a gummy grin. Sometimes, she’d stay up real late if one of the channels was playing a marathon. Now as an adult, she had the entire series on VHS, as well as all of "The New Scooby Doo Movies", "The New Scooby Doo Mysteries", all episodes of "The New Scooby and Scrappy Doo Show", and a couple of Scooby video games. The socks she wore today, too, were patterned in Scooby heads. 

Ally craned her neck a bit to study Danielle’s enraptured profile. The baby grinned whilst a werewolf chased the 70s-era teenagers through a creepy, old house. She produced a sort of gurgle-shriek, and Allison cocked her head to the side, as though understanding her baby speak. “What was that? Which one are you? Hmm.” Tapping a finger to her chin, the Basketcase pretended to give the answer some thought. “Going by who your parents are, I’d say you will grow up to be a combination of Daphne and Shaggy.”

She could totally see John stuffing a huge hero sandwich down his gullet, then shouting “Zoinks!” and pinwheeling it down the hall. 

Danielle made another sound. Ally rested a hand on her chest. “Me? I think I’m more like Velma. I love solving a good mystery, I say weird things, and, of course, there isn’t an oversized sweatshirt I wouldn’t wear.” 

The baby cooed and pointed to the screen. Fred was pulling the werewolf mask off some school teacher. “Yeah, Andy’s more Fred, I think. He’s blond and fit and popular. Not really much for neckties, though.” Allison regarded Danielle’s profile again and grinned. “It’s funny because Fred is with Daphne on the show, and it would’ve made more sense for Andy and Claire to hook up, I guess. Which would’ve been totally boring. And you’d’a come out completely different. Maybe even blonde!” 

As a reply, Danielle smacked her palms against her chubby baby thighs. Allison laughed and muttered along to “And I would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids!” 

Andy emerged from the kitchen holding a bottle. “Al. It’s time to feed her.”

Allison nodded and took the warm bottle from her husband. As she lowered the nipple to Danielle’s mouth, the baby’s hands squeezed the plastic and a long spurt of the formula squirted out. Entirely soaking Andy’s face. 

Erupting in laughter, Ally screeched with gaiety as her husband closed his eyes and pursed his lips like he’d just sucked on a Lemondrop. In her lap, Danielle was sucking on the bottle, but a spark lit her gaze like she was in on the joke. 

“Oh, boy!” Allison cackled. “Are you lucky that’s formula and not breastmilk.” 

Andy sighed and headed for the bathroom. “I need to wash this off before I go blind.”

Ally gazed down at the baby, smirking. “You are definitely a Bender. Your dad would be proud.”

Danielle continued to suck on the rubber nipple.   
**  
It was nearly 8:00 by the time they reached their destination.

Though a good portion of Lake Michigan lay right at home in Chitown, Claire’s idea of a vacation meant somewhere away from the city—away from the daily hubbub, the endless shouting and jeering and honking, the lingering smell of fossil fuels and hotdogs. Claire Standish’s idea of the perfect getaway, obviously, was somewhere in France, say the Provencal countryside, on a magnificent old farmhouse with a fantastic view and no neighbors for miles and unbroken acres of saturated lavender fields. It was a misconception that Claire favored the resorts—'When you’ve been to ten, you’ve been to them all'. Instead, she preferred getting lost somewhere, perfectly isolated, without having to bother keeping up appearances. Weren’t those resort holidays at the Ritz-Carlton in Rome or the Peninsula Beverly Hills mostly about bragging rights? Looking marvelous enough and being absurdly rich enough to froth the other patrons into a jealous tizzy? 

Her mother, naturally, loved resort vacations. She had a standing suite available in the Nassau Atlantis. 

Of all the exotic locales she’d frequented, Claire had never just chilled out locally on the lake. That first time, after Claire had expressed her interest in a weekend getaway, John had booked a hotel in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Her stupid self, however, spent the whole of the first day attempting to burn her ivory skin to a crisp, and, so, the rest of the holiday was shot to hell. She spent most of it lying in bed watching bad daytime TV and ordering room service. 

John was the one who had suggested this sort of “do-over”. Claire hadn’t exactly been her usual fabulous self the past week or so. She’d been incredibly depressed, haunted by her lost earring and what its disappearance could possibly mean. She knew, in hindsight, that the diamond stud was just that, but it meant so much more to her and she couldn’t help but assign hidden meanings to things sometimes. 

Her earlobe felt naked without the usual presence of the earring. 

The ride from Chicago to Kenosha usually took about an hour and a half, but with traffic, they didn’t get there until after eight, well after the sun had set over the lake’s horizon. Their hotel of choice here on the shore, away from the inner city, was called The Breakers, though the waves here weren’t very formidable. A four-star hotel, yes, but it wasn’t exactly the Fontainebleu. Most of the rooms in The Breakers were cute, little cottages or bungalows or whatever, each with its own outdoor patio. The more expensive rooms were equipped with their own Jacuzzis, partly why she’d wanted to pay for it, but John had insisted and she wasn’t about to trample all over his manly manliness. They’d just use the public one out in the courtyard.

While John was parking the Audi, she ventured inside the beach-themed lobby and gave their names to the teenage girl behind the counter. Popping her gum, the big-haired brunette with incredibly neon pink lipstick smeared on her mouth tapped a few keys into the weird computer that kind of resembled a fishbowl on stilts without looking at her. 

“Cabin 6, on the right,” she droned, passing Claire a set of keys. 

Claire smiled fleetingly, repossessed her suitcase, and traversed the sandy terrain outside until she reached Cabin 6. After unlocking it, she walked inside, leaving the door open to alert John, and glanced around. It was a slightly different room than last time, a large shared cabin separated by a door instead of the single square they’d stayed in in the past. The small living area held a table and three chairs, with a fully stocked kitchenette off the corner. In the bedroom was a double queen-size, cursed with one of those tacky “this is totally a hotel!” duvets, this one red and bedecked in tiny blue umbrellas. The bay window offered a fantastic view, though, a picture-perfect rectangular glimpse of the hotel’s private beach, the placid waters ahead, and the clear sky now tinged a dark indigo. In the distance, Claire could spot the tall, bright red lighthouse perched on the end of a long wooden dock—one of Kenosha’s landmarks. The lighthouse was partially why she preferred coming here to the countryside instead of remaining in the city—it reminded her of a picture painted on Cape Cod. 

John ambled inside a moment later, arms laden with valises—his and hers—and a grimace on his face. With a grunt, he dropped her two pink Coach suitcases and his one nameless black duffle on the cedar-planked floor, flexing and unflexing his hand. “Seriously. Did you pack fucking rocks?” 

Claire laughed through her nose and bent to retrieve the pink baggage. On the bed, she unzipped one to reveal a dozen pairs of shoes. 

John rolled his eyes. “Of course. How silly of me.” 

Moving from the bed to the closet and back again, putting her things away, Claire said, “We’re too late for dinner; I think the dining room’s closed. We should order in some room service.”

Plucking a laminated menu from the bedside table, her boyfriend scanned the contents. “Shrimp scampi. Clams. Fried squid—ew. What the fuck is a boo-ill-ah-base? I just want some damn fish n’ chips.” 

The Breakers had its own seafood restaurant, On the Half Shell, but John wasn’t much for, in his words, “shit that was alive in the ocean an hour ago”. He appreciated a good plate of fish n’ chips, however. Most fried stuff was good by him.

'Except calamari, apparently.' 

“Bouillabaisse,” Claire pronounced, trying to suppress her smirk. “It’s sort of a Provencal fish stew.” 

John wrinkled his nose. “No thanks. Ah, fish n’ chips. They only have the kids’ version, what the fuck?” 

Claire shook her head and grabbed the menu from him, then crossed the room to the landline phone on the bedside table.   
**  
John and Claire largely spent their first night in the room—unfortunately not marathoning it, unless one counted the seven-hour block of "Married with Children" he’d flipped on at ten—as Claire was too tired, or so she said. John cut his losses—'Not literally, I’m no masochist'—settled down to watch some TV, eat his fish n’ chips and hot fudge sundae, and actually sleep for once. He was so used to being unceremoniously woken by a wailing baby, the lack of such jarred him throughout that first night. 

While Claire slept beside him, having fallen asleep minutes after eating, he found himself just…watching her. The way her chest rose and fell. How her ginger hair fell over her eyes. Her body trustingly curled up against his. John swallowed, tearing his gaze from her prone form to the closet, where he’d hung his jacket. In the pocket of that jacket lay the velvet box, in which nestled the ring. It had burned a hole clear through the denim and into his side the entire trip. 

Laughing at Al and Peg Bundy’s antics for seven hours was a distraction, but it didn’t take much for John to remember the *real* reason they were here. 

He still had no idea where he’d pop the question. Or when. Only that it was to be outside somewhere, and sometime in the next four days. 

Bender sighed and, when the mini-marathon was over, flicked the TV off and turned over to go to sleep. 

They spent the whole of the next day out on the beach—Claire lugged a huge umbrella and vampire-strength SPF with her this time, much to his entertainment—at turns lying out and swimming. It took quite a bit of cajoling to get Claire to literally let her hair down and get wet (though not the wet he preferred) but issuing a Hold Your Breath challenge did the trick. He won, much to her annoyance. Afterwards, aggravated—Claire hated losing almost as much as he did—she refused to go back in and spent the next hour leafing through a fashion magazine. Until he rented a boat and some waterskis. She wanted to bear witness to his “absurd failure”, as she called it. 

She was right. He jumped a ramp and nearly crashed face-first into a buoy. 

Later that night, Claire convinced him to try the hotel’s restaurant, On the Half Shell, located in the back of the main building. Though the place was a five-star seafood restaurant, he was not a fan, and had kinda-sorta-maybe thanked Cheesus that, last time, Claire was too sick to try it and instead insisted on nothing but room service. It was the perfect excuse not to have to dress up for this thing. Yeah, it was one of *those* restaurants—where the wine goblets were cut crystal, there were too many damn utensils at his place, and he had to wear a fucking suit. Or at least a jacket and a tie. He hated ties. Always had, always would. 

“John! We’re going to miss our reservation! Just put the tie on!” 

Grumbling, Bender wrapped the noose around his neck and fumblingly did the knot, way too close to acute asphyxiation for his liking. When he walked out of the bathroom, still sulking, Claire was holding out the sport coat for him. 

'Ugh. Andy-coat.'

John stared deadpan at the thing. “Do I have to?”

“If we want to eat.”

He scoffed. “I’d rather just get a burger at the McDonald’s down the street.”

At the restaurant, after the snotty maître ‘d took their names, he led them to a table in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. Awkwardly, John pulled a chair out for her—he wanted this weekend to go less tits up than usual—cleared his throat to avoid meeting her amused eyes, and sat down. And bit back a groan. There was way too much shit on this table. Soup spoon. Salad fork. Steak knife. That was all he needed to know. But here was a frigging rainbow of utensils, spanned out like one of those Japanese hand fans. 

Claire was folding her cloth napkin over her lap. “Just start from the outside and work your way in.”

Dubiously, John picked up what he thought was a butter knife and began smearing a slice of pumpernickel with the stuff. 

The waiter showed up with a bright smile and bright eyes and even brighter hair parted to the side. 'Looks like a member of the Hitler Youth'. John snickered to himself, amused at his own hilarity, and Claire threw him a glare, as if she could read his mind. Which, granted, if anyone could, it was her. Also, granted, if he was laughing, there was a good chance it was at someone else’s expense, a fact that she was quite privy to. 

The pretty boy waiter, whose nametag read Tad—'Who the hell is named ‘Tad’?!'—bent too far over Claire for his liking as he perused the drinks menu. John scowled, eyeing the décolletage on display in her low-cut black dress. That was *his* décolletage, damn it! In theory. 

“What can I get you?” asked the blatantly ogling cheesedick. 

Bender slammed his menu closed, intentionally garnering Tad’s attention. “Heineken. In a glass.” This was a classy place, after all. 

Across from him, his girlfriend snapped her own menu closed much less obviously. She smiled up at Tad. “Chardonnay. A ’72, if you’ve got it.” 

Tad took both menus with a shit-eating grin. “My pleasure.”

'Yeah, I’m sure it is. Douche'. 

When Tad the Douche returned, brandishing his beer and her glass of Chardonnay, he pulled out his pad and beamed all the wider. “What can I get you…both?”

Yeah. There was a definite hesitation before 'both'. John’s glare deepened. 

“Um, I guess I’ll have the lobster ravioli,” Claire said with an oblivious smile. 

Bender didn’t take his eyes off the kid. “Surf n’ Turf.” 

Tad scribbled something on his Tad-Pad. “How would you like your steak? Ahm, sir.”

'Oh, this guy is asking for it'. Whatever “it” was, John didn’t exactly know. But he’d damn sure do *something*! Even if that meant pulling a middle-aged lady with a bad hedgehog haircut and complain to the manager. “Medium. With the baked potato.”

When Tad the Douche left after taking their orders, John’s scowl did not go away. Claire quirked one ginger brow as she sipped her wine. “What now?”

“That jackhole was scamming on you.”

Claire’s mouth dropped open. “He was not!”

Bender sneered. “He was so! I am an expert scammer, Claire. I know the signs.” 

Claire rolled her eyes. “He was just being nice.”

John’s bark of laughter contained no actual humor. “No guy past the age of twelve is simply *nice* to a hot chick for no reason.” 

Finishing off her Chardonnay, she pushed the goblet back and stood on her teetering shoes. “Whatever, forget about him. Let’s dance.”

Gazing out into the crowd gathered on the rectangle of tiled dancefloor, swaying without a hint of rhythm to Phil Collins, Bender groaned. “I hate this song.”

Claire’s eyes were entirely too innocent as she replied, “Well. I guess I can always ask the waiter, but—“ 

'Like hell you are!' That was enough. John quickly rose from his seat, took the giggling Claire’s bicep, and led her out onto the dancefloor. When she put her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder, he smiled like a doof, recalling from Sporto and Basketcase’s wedding the perks of slow dancing, even if it wasn’t exactly his thing. 

Over his princess’ shoulder, Tad the Douche slowly set down porcelain plates heaping with their food atop the cloth-covered table, his stupid light eyes following their every movement. John’s Oh Gorsh smile morphed into a smartass smirk, and he took one hand off Claire’s hip to flash the kid the bird. 

Tad the Douche glowered and quickly scampered away.

John’s grin broadened. 'Score one for the burnout.'   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: A reviewer suggested I use Queen's "Hammer to Fall", so here ya go!
> 
> Note 2: As a 90s kid, whenever I see a dead mall, I shed a tear in mourning. Malls were my oasis as a teenager. Malls were my lifeline. Damn you, Amazon, for killing another cultural milestone! *she says while clicking 'buy' on an overpriced box of Poptarts*
> 
> Note 3: The Brat Pack all went on "Donahue" after that article was released to defend themselves. In today's age, they'd just release an Instagram story or a Twitter statement hastily prepared in the Notes section of their iPhones. #80s
> 
> Note 4: Andy to Brian: "Can you hear me now? Fuck!"
> 
> Note 5: Panda Express was founded in '83. Spencer's took off in the 40s, post WWII. I doubt they offered mountainous dildos back then, but what do I know?
> 
> Note 6: If anyone would buy his fiancee an actual dolphin, it'd be Ferris Bueller.
> 
> Note 7: I definitely had a See N' Say. It drove my parents nuts because I would always play the same sounds over and over again. "The dog says bark. The cat says meow. The horse says neigh."
> 
> Note 8: 80s and early 90s computers were weird-looking as hell. Just google some photos or watch an old commercial on YouTube. 
> 
> Note 9: I wanted to make a Lorena Bobbitt joke, but, sadly, she didn't cut off that cheating, abusive prick's prick until 1993.


	39. Chapter 38: More Than Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allo! It was gorgeous earlier and then suddenly the sky opened and ALL the rain came down. A perfect metaphor for the beervirus.
> 
> Also, I just realized I never fantasy-cast Josh Standish. I'ma go with Eric Stoltz, that adorable little Method redhead. This next part is 20 pages, I cannot believe I already have more than 400 total rn.

Chapter 38: More Than Words

“No, Bri, I don’t see your retainer here. Yes, I swear I looked all over the apartment for it. Yes, even under the couch…what? Why the hell would Danielle have it? She’s a baby! She doesn’t *have* teeth!” There was a brief respite whilst Andy balanced Claire’s ridiculous retro phone between his shoulder and ear to free up his hands and drape an afghan over Allison. “Actually, yeah, that *does* seem like something he’d do. I’ll check her crib. But sounds like you’ll probably need to get a new one.” 

Another pause. Andy sank down on the nearest chair. “It’s Baltimore, Brian. I’m sure there are plenty of orthodontists there. Hell, there’s probably one at Johns Hopkins...yeah, man! Just find a dental student who needs to practice. You’ll get it for free... How do I know? My parents have five kids, all who had horrible cheese grater teeth in middle school. Mom learned how to cut corners on dental care. Retainers are hella expensive, you’ll thank me. I gotta go; it’s time to put the baby down.” Blink. “Yes, Bri, I promise I’ll check her crib. The whole nursery, whatever. Later.”

Andy hung up the receiver before the Brainiac could prolong this absurd conversation with more retainer-related entreaties, rolled his eyes, and laughed. On the sofa on the eastern wall, beside the ill-fated electric swing Bender still hadn’t managed to put together (and refused to peek at the directions to do so), his wife was quietly slumbering, her head on a throw pillow, an adorable little wrinkle between her eyes. 

'Wonder what she’s dreaming about.' Whatever it was, it rendered her perplexed. 'Maybe she has, like, a PB&J in front of her and she has no idea what to do with it.' 

Peanut butter and Oreos was more Allison’s thing. 

Climbing to his feet again, Andy moved to the middle of the room, where he bent down to heft Danielle from her playpen. In one small hand she clutched her dragon toy; the other she used as a makeshift pacifier. “Okay. Naptime.”

The word seemed to trigger her inner waterworks because she suddenly started crying. Andy sighed and patted her back. “Aw, come on, don’t do that! You gotta sleep every few hours or your mom will come back from Wisconsin and kill me. I can still kick your old man’s butt, but he’ll certainly try, too.” 

Danielle blinked up at him, abruptly halted the tears, and lifted her dragon toy to show him, grinning gummily. 

Andy smirked. “Yes, I see. We should give that a name, what do you think? We can call it…MacLaine.” 

He wished that he could say he was honoring "Die Hard’s" hero, John McClane, but, really, he just dug "Terms of Endearment". 

“Don’t tell anyone that, especially your dad,” the Sport continued as though Danielle could read his mind. “I’ll never hear the end of it. My tombstone will say ‘Here lies Andrew Clark: Beloved Brother, Husband, Son, and Lover of "Terms of Endearment",’ he’ll see to that.” 

Danielle began gnawing on the dragon’s furry ear. Andy shook his head and walked her to her crib. 

After she was down and happily sucking on her pacifier, he retreated to the kitchen, intentionally making his footfalls as silent as possible so as not to wake Ally. Opening the fridge, which was newly stuffed with all his favorites, Andy selected a huge bag of cookies and a can of soda and settled in to watch Nick at Nite. 

As soon as he popped open the bag, the baby let out a yowl. Andy grunted and hefted himself off the loveseat, trudging to the nursery. She was hungry, so he fixed her a bottle and went back to his Brady Bunch marathon. 

Twenty minutes later, she was crying again. And again in forty-five. He’d done everything he could think of, including changing her gross diaper. He banged his head against the crib’s edge, suddenly very exhausted. 

'I guess this is practice for when we have our own'. 

Slumping into the rocking chair, Andy settled in for a long wait.  
**  
At dinner, Claire could’ve *sworn* she glimpsed a familiar head of salt-and-pepper hair seated at a table across the dining room, on the other side of the small dancefloor. Morbidly curious, Claire told John she was going to use the bathroom—“You mean stay in there for twenty minutes reapplying your makeup, don’t lie.”—grabbed her black Chanel clutch, and started in the direction of the restrooms, making absolutely sure to creep close to the perimeters of the restaurant. 

Before the ladies’ restroom, Claire, a master of spying—John always said that she could work for the CIA—ducked behind a towering potted plant. And looked. 

Yep. There he was, seated with a woman she presumed to be his wife, a small lady with a blonde bouffant currently lambasting her poor waitress for one perceived slight or another. 

'Just like Mother'. 

It quite disturbed her that Vernon’s spouse reminded her of her own mom. 

Vernon, for his part, looked a bit embarrassed, slouched in his chair while his significant other yelled at their waitress. She watched his cheeks puff out in what she assumed was frustration, then glance around nervously. 

At one point, his gaze almost directly met hers, and Claire, panicked, ducked further down amid the potted palm, hoping that the fronds adequately concealed her person. For the first time, she cursed her bright red hair. 

'God! What are the odds he’d be here?!'

She hadn’t glimpsed hide nor hair of the prick since graduation. The absence hadn’t exactly been mourned. And now here he was, hundreds of miles away from Chicago, away from Shermer, purportedly on vacation with his shrew of a wife. 

When Vernon’s attention returned to his spouse and the waitress, who was quite close to tears, Claire rose and tiptoed back to their table. Literally tiptoed. Like she was the Pink Panther in heels. 

'And the one time I’m wearing black.'

At their table, Claire threw herself into her seat and leaned over, ignoring the empty glasses in her way, and whispered urgently, “Vernon’s here!” 

John’s eyes broadened. He looked a cross between delighted and bewildered. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Shaking her head, the Princess reached further, as if the all-not-knowing Mr. Vernon could hear her from clear across the crowded restaurant. “He’s with his wife. Whom, judging by how she was completely giving their waitress a dress-down, seems like…well…” 

A corner of John’s mouth quirked. “Your mom?” 

Claire winced. “Uh, yeah. So, um, we should go before he sees us.” 

Her boyfriend laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed. This…was not the reaction she’d been anticipating. “*Why*?” he asked, slapping the tabletop and causing the wine goblets to clink together. A few feet away, the maître ‘d glowered. “I *want* him to see me. Fuck, I *hope* he sees me. And pisses his Barry Manilow-approved pants.” 

Claire rolled her eyes but also couldn’t help snorting in laughter, recalling that day in detention when John asked Vernon if Barry Manilow knew that he raided his wardrobe. “John, I don’t want him ruining our vacation. And if he’s the same jerk he was five years ago, he definitely will if he sees us.”

John snickered. “If he sees me, you mean.”

She shrugged. “He’s got it out for both of us. You know how I ‘fell from grace’ in his eyes after I started seeing you.”

Again, her boyfriend guffawed and grinned, leaning back in his seat and looking entirely too proud of himself. Pre-detention of ’84, the faculty and administration at Shermer collectively kissed Claire’s ass, both due to who her father was and said father’s yearly donations to the school. Shermer had never exactly been a hub of modernity—at least, not before she started going there. It was just a regular concrete jungle of a public school, an oversized cinderblock plunked smack dab in the middle of town. But when Claire Standish decided she wished to go there with her friends instead of attending the fancy-schmancy private school Richard was all set to send her to, the place got an overhaul overnight and every year hence Claire was in the public school system. Before, Shermer High students had been learning out of fifteen-year-old textbooks and doing schoolwork in desks that were falling apart and studying in a library the size of a postage stamp. When she started matriculating, her dad paid for new texts, new desks, and a massive new library, complete with two floors, a computer lab, and a music room. 

If Richard Standish’s only daughter was going to attend public school, it was going to be the *best* public school in all of suburban Chicago. 

Anyway, those good vibes and ass-kissing lasted for about three years. And it was warranted. Teachers loved Claire because she completed all her work on time and rarely caused a ruckus. And she was smart, which made her one of the few A-group students not on Bimbo Brain. 

That all changed the first day of senior year, when she and John went public. Her teachers went to great lengths to hide their distaste, the administration only grudgingly said hello to her when they passed her in the hall, and Vernon and Rooney…ha! Rooney had at least *pretended* to look the other way for the betterment of the school, but Vernon, who counted John as his greatest adversary, was not shy in expressing disappointment at the least and outright irrational anger at the most. The amount of times he’d tried to invent reasons to smack Claire with a detention were staggering. 

Fortunately, her father had been there to get her out of these injustices. He’d done the same for John a few times at her request. 

This, of course, drove Vernon *nuts.* Which only made John’s antics bolder. 

To this day, his senior prank of taking apart Vernon’s car and reassembling it on the roof while its radio blasted Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out For the Summer” was still his personal favorite. 

“This is true,” John conceded, tapping his chin. “I gave you street cred, princess.” 

Claire’s eyes widened when she saw Vernon and his scowling wife coming their way. “Shit,” she cried, then ducked under the table. When John didn’t follow, she grabbed a fistful of the sport coat he hated and dragged him down beside her. 

“We’re really hiding from Dick?” he scoffed. “He’s about as intimidating as a bichon frise.” 

“Yes,” she replied, watching underneath the tablecloth whilst his colorful spats ambled by. She sighed and lifted herself back into her chair. “That was a close one.”

“Not really. He made a conscious decision to wear those shoes,” John replied, alluding to Vernon’s circumspect purple and yellow spats. “It seems that Ole Dick has gone blind in the years since.” 

For dessert, they ordered individual plates of baked Alaska. John decided to test their waiter. When the guy set his plate down before him, John studied it, then him, and casually requested he taste it himself first. Their waiter stuttered an excuse about it being against code to sample customers’ dishes, but John insisted; the kid reddened and scampered away. 

Claire narrowed her eyes across the table at him. John pushed away his plate. “Ex-lax. I can smell it. I’ve done just this prank to Dick a dozen times.” A snicker. “And it was never not funny.” 

She leaned over, took an experimental sniff, and wrinkled her nose. John declined to alert the manager because he didn’t want to be a “narc”, so Claire did it herself. The kid was gone by the end of the day. 

The whole of the following day was spent dodging Vernon. The jackass seemed to be wherever they were, from walking the boardwalk—he was ducking into the toilet—to swimming in the hotel’s pool—the image of her old vice principal in a pair of electric green Speedos would haunt her forever—to lounging out on the beach—he and Mrs. Vernon claimed a spot *right* next to theirs—escaping him was becoming a regular chore. At one point, she steadfastly refused to leave their room. John had no complaints. 

The next night, after dinner, they spent the remainder of the evening scouring the nearby town and painting it red—clubbing, shopping, making out in the most arbitrary of places as they’d done as teenagers. They managed to get back to the hotel just before midnight, though John had wanted to stay out longer. 

'If it were up to him, we’d be out until dawn and sleep away the entire afternoon.' 

Claire shook her head and unlocked the door to their room. In the bedroom, John instantly shucked off his denim jacket and hung it in the closet. 

Standing before the full-length mirror, one of Claire’s arms absently reached behind her to rub her shoulder, her neck. She winced. She had an ache just below the column of her neck, or what her Grandma Jane used to call a “misery”.

“Ow,” she muttered, rubbing the spot and cringing into her reflection. 

She heard the closet door close and John’s heavy footfalls sound on the bare floor—stomp, stomp, stomp. Even in his stocking feet, he made a racket. Claire was about to remark on this, his tendency to sound like a stampeding wildebeest, but promptly lost her words when his talented, callused hands curled over her shoulders and commenced massaging the misery-ing muscles there. 

“Ohhhh,” she moaned, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against his chest. Claire was tall for a woman, but John was over six feet; they’d always fit together perfectly. 'In more ways than one'. She blushed a bit at her own thoughts. “That feels nice…”

John chuckled. The cadence was deep and rumbly and masculine and Claire could feel a pleasant little buzz, though she’d only had one glass of wine. “You know, Claire. I’m no professional masseuse or anything. But I can feel a big ball of tension right…here,” he said as his thumbs began kneading the flesh beneath the back of her neck.

Claire laughed through her nose. “Yeah. I call it Danielle.” 

Plainly amused, he grinned in the mirror over her shoulder. “Sounds about right.” 

Now rendered a human puddle of girly-goo, all of Claire’s muscles felt liquid. Her moan of pleasure and relief as his talented fingers massaged her tender skin became a small gasp when he slid down the cap sleeve of her dress, and his lips found curve of her neck, her collarbone. Claire’s freckled shoulders had never failed to send him into a tailspin. Why, she had no idea. 

These ministrations went on for another few minutes before she languidly straightened and gestured absently to the back of her dress. “Could you get this for me?”

“Mmhmm,” he murmured. When he dragged the zipper down her spine, he made sure his knuckles followed in its wake. Claire shivered.

When the zipper reached its nadir, she flashed him a smile and said, “Thank you.”

Then, she let the satin material pool at her feet, and John’s eyes went as round as soccer balls. “…holy shit…” He blinked, once, twice, three times, and she giggled. “Where did…Victoria’s Secret again?”

Shaking her head, Claire stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Frederick’s of Hollywood.”

She’d purchased the Chantilly lace and silk lingerie not long after Danielle was born, desiring something sexy and ludicrous that made her feel pretty after the hell of giving birth. In the months hence, she’d never really found an excuse to wear it, and being a new mom, she discovered that she preferred lounging around in old pajamas. The Frederick’s lingerie was so exquisite—and so expensive—Claire hadn’t felt right using it for any old occasion. 

When John suggested this trip, she knew that it was the perfect justification. 

Looking her up and down now, in her lacy red bra, bikini panties, garter, and stockings, he let out a slow whistle. Claire laughed and tightened her grip around his neck. “Do you like it?”

John’s eyes blinked again. “Is…is that a rhetorical question?”

Giggling some more, she shrieked when he unceremoniously lifted her beneath her legs. “'Do I like it',” he said, incredulous, and began peppering kisses along her collarbone. “Hell yeah I like it.” More kisses. Claire laughed harder. “I like it a lot.” 

Pulling back, his brow furrowed as he studied her from tip to toe. “Jesus, a whole lot. Is that a *garter*?” 

She nodded. “Women used to wear them a lot during the war.”

John grinned. “No wonder there was a baby boom afterwards.” 

Claire’s sniggers intensified until his lips found that spot, *that spot,* underneath her ear, and there were no more words spoken. Not comprehensible words, anyway. 

An ah-mazing two hours later, they lay in bed amid the sweaty sheets. Claire knew that she must’ve looked a horror—her lips felt swollen, her neck and chest were covered in hickeys, and she was certain she needed to kill the cat on her head—but she didn’t care. Beside her equally satisfied boyfriend, she stretched out her limbs like a panther and rested her head against the cool hotel pillow. John’s arm snaked around her slick waist and pulled her closer. 

“I urge you to buy as many of those as possible,” John said, gesturing her body up and down. Claire still wore, ahem, parts of the lingerie set, as per his request that she “keep it on”. 

Claire chortled and pushed a piece of sweaty hair off his forehead. “We’ll never leave the apartment.”

“And that’s a bad thing because…?”

Laughing, she lightly whapped him on the bicep and rested her pleasantly foggy head against his shoulder. There was a moment of comfortable silence between them, and Claire began to doze off…

…until the distinct clamor of arguing echoed through the wall behind them. This was a shared cabin, so there were other guests on the opposite side of the wall, though she had met neither of them. From this vantage, the squabbling twosome sounded like a young couple, like she and John were. *Unlike* she and John, however…ahm…. 

“You hear that, Ted? That’s the sound of a man satisfying a woman!”

Normally, Claire was not much of a blusher. Now, though, she could feel her entire face heating to the top of her neck. 'Oh, my God, were we that loud?' Mortified, Claire ducked further down in bed, as though she could melt into it. 

John chuckled merrily, because of course he did. 

The quarrel continued, muffled through the wall. “Shut up, Kayla!”

Her bedmate’s gaiety increased. “Shit. Poor Ted.”

Claire couldn’t help herself; she broke up in laughter right along with him. Bowed over with her head against his naked chest, she could feel the amused rumblings of his shaking abdomen. 

“Where you goin’?” demanded the wall. Demanded Ted. It had to be the unfortunate Ted, who seemed to be ill prepared where his girlfriend was concerned. 

'Unless there are three of them in there. And neither guy can satisfy Kayla'. 

“Getting new batteries for my *toy*,” Kayla spat. Claire heard footsteps and the creak of a door opening. “I know I’m gonna need ‘em on this trip.”

“Really,” John said amid quaking bouts of mirth. “Poor Ted.”

Claire, too, was reveling in her merriment. “Poor Kayla, too.”

They laughed harder. On the other side, Ted called after Kayla, and the bickering continued until their voices petered out in the distance. 

Her boyfriend shook his head. “Poor, poor Ted.”

Grinning a tad wolfishly, still feeling like a bit of a goddess in these moments following their latest bout, Claire burrowed back under the covers and began pressing her lips against his neck. “Mmm. Maybe you should give him some pointers…” 

An adorable tinge of crimson appeared in his cheeks and on the tips of his ears. She would never get tired of these glimpses of Bashful Bender. “Nah,” he negated, waving away the concept with the hand that wasn’t around her waist. “I feel like any advice I’d have to dispel would go right over his head.” With a smirk, he gazed down at her. “Both of ‘em.” 

That cut them up again, and they laughed and laughed until Claire’s eyes started to grow heavy once more. She could feel the edges of exhaustion—both mental via being presented with Vernon again and finding new and inventive ways to dodge him—and physical—that reason was plainly obvious. Claire stretched her tingling limbs and closed her eyes. 

Following a suspension of about two minutes, John’s voice rang out amidst the silence. “Claire?”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Hmm?” When he failed to continue, she cocked her head to gaze up at him, her bush of hair falling into her eyes. 

John exhaled deeply. She could discern the rise and fall of his chest in the darkness of the bedroom. “I know I don’t say it a lot, or as often as I should, but…” he said to the ceiling, then turned to look down at her, into dark eyes that went softer with his words. “…I really do love you, you know…” 

Claire’s face broke out in a sleepy smile, one that she could feel brightening her from the inside out. It was true that he didn’t say those words very often, which she really didn’t have a problem with. She’d always been of the mind that saying a phrase too frequently rendered it moot, and that was particularly true with 'I love you'. 

Besides, he didn’t *need* to say it all the time. He showed her; every day, he showed her. Like when he picked up Japanese on the way home from work even though he hated most of the menu, knowing that she loved the stuff. Or when he sat through one of her dumb romantic comedies with her. Or when he took her to a Madonna or Bangles concert, even if he considered their music eardrum-destroying worthy. 

But still. It was nice to hear it every once in a while. Claire leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I know. I love you, too.”

Smiling a little, he lay on his back to once more gaze at the ceiling. “I should say it more.”

“Well,” Claire said, shifting closer in order to rest her cheek on his chest. “I certainly wouldn’t mind.” 

The arm around her waist tightened, and she felt him softly kiss her hair before the urge to sleep overwhelmed her.  
**  
It was really too bad, John decided, that Claire wanted to stay the hell away from the unexpected presence of Vernon. He had a couple of things he’d like to say to the guy. But John was determined to make this vacation a pleasant one for her—he didn’t want her to look back and wrinkle her nose at anything—so he honored her wishes by ducking into open doors and diving under the water whenever he was around. 

Pity. 

The day was mostly spent on the beach. Claire got a less Satan-like base tan, and John taught two kids how to play Ultimate Frisbee. When the disk sailed over the kids’ heads and right through one of the hotel’s windows, he then taught them how to dodge responsibility. 

He was sure their mother would appreciate it later on.

Early in the evening, they took in a showing of the new "Back to the Future" movie at the nearby cinema (John never grew bored of the Tannen clan’s absurdity), then went back to their room to order in. John was very much not in the mood to dress up again, so he was grateful Claire hoped to further dodge Vernon by ducking out of the restaurant. 

Besides, Tad the Douche had kinda ruined it for him. The steak was good, though. 

After dinner of poached salmon on seaweed (ugh) for her and a big, juicy burger for him, they went to the ice cream parlor across the street to get a couple of cones. That evening, in the soft breeze, with the full silvery moon bathing them both in its glow, John could not take his eyes off her. Claire was beautiful, of course, she always had been. But, tonight, pointing her face to the wind and allowing the breeze to ruffle her hair, casually garbed in a white dress that showed off her elegant shoulders and excellent nursing mom boobs, the scent of her strawberry shampoo lingering where she stood, it was like…there was something *more*. Something that made her truly sparkle, ethereal like a fucking angel.

John’s heart clenched in his chest, and the ring made its presence known in his jacket pocket. 

He was going to do this. Tonight.

At ten thirty, they were out walking, and John felt his palms begin to sweat. If he were in a cartoon, he’d be gulping loudly and pulling his collar away from his neck, he was that nervous. Ambling beside him, Claire seemed to pick up on the sudden tension he was experiencing because she furrowed her brow and asked him what was wrong. 

John shook his head. 'Stop being such a basketcase. That’s Allison’s job'. 

Searching for a diversion from his anxiety—and the rapidly approaching Moment—he spotted the “No swimming after ten!” sign nailed to the picket fence that enclosed the pool area and grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

“What are we *doing*?” Claire screeched behind him, giggling, whilst he easily climbed over the fence, unlocked the gate, and pushed it open. 

On the other side, John grinned, shucked off his jacket (which he carefully set on a nearby lounge, unlike the rest of his clothing scattered about uncaringly), stripped down to the dark swim trunks he still wore and cannonballed into the pool. 

“John!” Claire shrieked as water splashed her likely stupidly expensive dress. “You know, we’re not supposed to be in here now…”

Smirking, he floated to the side of the in-ground pool, looking up at her through wet lashes. “I know. Being bad feels pretty good, right?”

Claire’s luscious lips pursed and her chin ticked upwards. He knew that expression. That was her “challenge damn accepted” face. Pulling her long dress over her head, clad now in a black and white one-piece with a dangerously low V, Claire climbed down the nearest ladder into the cool water. 

One corner of his mouth quirked, John slicked his wet hair back and watched her swim toward him, now in the middle of the deep end of the pool. When she reached him, he held his breath, ducked under the water, and swam between her open legs, goosing her. 

“John!” he heard before he surfaced, the gasp muffled to his ears. When he came up for air, he broke out in merriment, which only increased when she whacked him on the shoulder. “You’re such a pig,” she laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“Oink, oink,” he returned and kissed her.

As usual, her lips were sweet, tasting of her cherry Chapstick, as well as a hint of chlorine from the pool water. Her pillowy lips were soft and inviting, and what she did with her tongue--'Jesus. I have created a sexy, sexy monster.' Claire had had a few boyfriends before him—in fact, she was practically born with some douchecanoe in hand—but they rarely lasted more than a few months, and, despite her impressive number, she always refused to go past a certain point with them…until him. Thus, in spite of appearances—past guys were mostly used as status symbols, by Claire’s own admission—his princess hadn’t much, ahem, *physical* experience when they first began seeing each other. 

That all started to change pretty damn quick, under his careful “tutelage”. Now, she was an expert at, ah, everything she was pointedly aware drove him crazy. Including the neck massage thing. And the hooking her leg over his hip thing. And the digging her nails into his scalp thing. 

Claire definitely accepted a guy’s tongue in her mouth these days. One guy. Only him. He’d tape a jackass’ buns together if he dared try to horn in. 

Which was exactly what he yearned to do to the donkey dick who interrupted the fun times he was having with Claire. 

“Hey!” 

Claire tore her lips from his, much to his displeasure, and they both turned in the direction of the pool entrance, where the interruption had come from. There, standing over the edge of the pool, was a guy in a blue and white hotel uniform topped with a ludicrous Panama hat. He was huge, he was red, and he did not look happy. 

Panama Hat crossed his arms over his ridiculous pecs. “Can’t you two read? No swimming after ten!”

John’s lips pursed. “Lo siento, hombre. No habla ingles.” 

Claire pushed at his arm. “Sorry, sir. We’ll be right out.”

Panama Hat rolled his eyes and stomped away. “Fucking kids.”

When the gate clanged behind him, they reluctantly pulled themselves out—John admiring Claire’s ass in that tight suit as she ascended the ladder—and she draped her dress over her one-piece while John pulled on his t-shirt and jacket. Before they left Chicago, Claire had had to convince him to bring swimming trunks at all. Despite his favorite catchphrase, John was not a fan of shorts; he rarely wore them and only Claire had ever really seen him in them. At the pool in their building, he kept his jeans on until the very second before he jumped in the water. Having quite a few scars on his legs, the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to them. 

But it was either the trunks or donning a wetsuit in a freshwater lake like a lunatic. 

Automatically, John checked the pocket of his denim jacket. Ring was still there, snuggled up next to an old K-Mart receipt. 

Outside the pool area, in the moonlight, Claire gazed at him with blatant bedroom eyes. It was enough to blow his pants right there. “Shall we go back to the room?”

Fuck, every nerve-ending was screaming at him to say yes, yes, right the hell now. But they only had one more day here. He knew if he didn’t do this ASAP, he’d chicken out like a little bitch. 

Gulping, the clamminess returning to his palms, he cleared his throat. “Let’s, um, take a walk.”

Claire wrinkled her perfect brow and smiled. “Okay.”

Needless to say, John Bender wasn’t the “take a walk” type. Unless he was suggesting going for a stroll to the nearest liquor store. 

Five minutes later, slowly ambling beside her on the sandy landscape, John was about to shit a brick. To calm himself, he grabbed her hand, which garnered him a look of pleasant surprise. 

'Jesus. When was the last time I held her hand like this? I suck'. 

Usually, John considered himself to be awesome. Right now, he was Jell-O personified. 

A few paces ahead, he spotted a slightly grassy dune packed up against the boardwalk separating the hotel from the beach. Again, John cleared his throat like a nervous idiot. “Here. Let’s…sit.”

His princess gazed at him, thick red hair blowing in the breeze. “Why here?”

He shrugged. “Because I like this sand dune in particular.” 

Claire giggled, and, to him, it sounded like bells tinkering together. 

Too late, John realized that sitting on the beach in his wet bathing suit would result in a sand-covered ass. 'Oh, well. It’ll make for an amusing anecdote to tell Dani later on.'

To his right, Claire lowered herself to sit beside him, arms clasped about her legs. John’s hand shakily fumbled in and out of the pocket of his jacket. Should he just, like, get started or…? How weird would it be if he simply blurted it out?

Staring straight ahead, out to the water, the small smile about Claire’s lips was almost wistful. “Oh. It’s so beautiful here.”

John looked askance at her, not really knowing how to reply. 'Damn right it is'. 

“The moon is so…big tonight,” she continued, gesturing vaguely out to the lake. 

That he had a response to. Grinning, his general smartassery returned; it habitually did in moments of anxiety. “Yeah. Bet there’s a tidal wave happening in the South Pacific right now.” 

Claire snorted in amusement and pushed on his knee. “You’re such a jerk.”

“You love it,” he returned easily, just before the jitters returned.

Turning her head farther to the right, Claire’s smile widened. “Oh! Look at them,” she said, indicating an older couple sitting a few yards ahead of them. The old lady’s white head rested on her husband’s shoulder. “I bet they’re here celebrating their 50th anniversary or something. Could you imagine being together that long?”

John followed her gaze, then glanced down at his legs splayed out before him. “That’s something.” 

With a concurring “hmm”, Cherry continued to watch the older pair. The husband now had his arm around his wife’s shoulders. 

John coughed, his throat very dry. The ring practically pulsated in his pocket. 

'Well. Guess it’s now or never'. 

Taking a deep, *deep* breath, he plunged ahead, wishing that he had rehearsed this shit or something. “You know,” he began, his voice a bit higher than normal. He cleared his throat again, and Claire craned her neck to regard him. “Um, growing up, I never really had…that.” He waved vaguely to the couple, who seemed to be watching a fishing boat on the horizon. It was as good a segue as any. “I—I mean, um, a real example of what a healthy relationship should look like.”

'Get it together, you pussy. You’re stumbling over your words like Brainiac.'

If Claire noticed, she didn’t comment on his suddenly thick tongue. She placed a gentle hand on his denim-covered bicep. “I know.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled humorlessly. “I guess you didn’t, either.”

“No,” she agreed. “But not like you. My parents never hurt me, at least not physically. They just…” Here, she bobbed her shoulders. “…used me as a backboard, I guess. And they were always screaming at each other. But neither of them ever laid a hand on me…” 

John stared down at his exposed knees once again, willing his legs not to shake. “As a kid, relationships, marriage, even…love,” he said, his forehead creasing, feeling himself getting lost Back There. Not that this wasn’t a fantastic time or anything. “They all equaled to…anger and violence.”

It was hard not to make that analogy when it was pretty much all you saw coming up. Your only model for the concept of matrimony. While it was true that his folks had had their “good days”, and that they loved each other in their own way, it was a dangerous, unhealthy love. More like obsession. 'Hell, look what’s happening now. The old man threatens his own grandkid to get his wife back.' 

To him, Valentine’s Day was more an ode to the St. Valentine’s Massacre instead of a frou-frou holiday cooked up by Hallmark to sell cards and candy and shit. 

Claire squeezed his knee. He continued. “I didn’t realize it at first, you know. I, um, thought all families were like that, like mine. That this is what husbands do to their wives. That parents fight a lot. That they hurt each other. It was normal.”

“What changed?” she asked, her voice soft. 

One corner of his lips quirked. “When I was eleven, I spent Memorial Day weekend at Ty’s,” he replied. In his mind’s eye, he could plainly see the little row house a street behind his, the cheery yellow one with the brown trim and the "‘Twas the Night Before Christmas"-style chimney. “*Mrs. Carter* didn’t have slap all over her face to hide the bruises her husband left. *Mrs. Carter* didn’t lock herself in her bedroom with a bottle of vodka and cry herself to sleep. In fact, she made us a snack after I came over…” 

Cheese and crackers. Real cheese, like brie and camembert. None of that shitty non-cheese his ma bought. 

Playing with his fingers absently, he went on. “And then when Big Bill’d come home, he’d dip her over his arm and kiss her. Then, he’d sit in the den with Ty and me and play video games with us.” John recollected being perched in front of the TV, furiously steering one of the controllers attached to Ty’s spanking new Atari 2600. “I thought maybe they were just having a ‘good day’, but, that first night, I found them slow-dancing to the Temptations.”

Claire’s throat bobbed as she smiled encouragingly. 

“So, that’s when I knew that most families *weren’t* like mine,” he added, nervously raking a hand through his hair. The wind was blowing the strands in his eyes and annoying him. “And that my dad was a huge piece of shit, and I never wanted to be like him. Ever.” He shrugged and smirked ruefully. “Told myself the easiest way to avoid that was…not doing the one-guy-one-girl thing.”

Mimicking his expression, her lips ticked. “So *that’s* why you had so many girlfriends in your wallet.”

John’s chest rumbled. “Uh, yeah, pretty much.” A pause. “It was easy at first. To keep girls at arm’s length. Because I had never really…met anyone I was willing to take all that risk for.” Gaze lifting from his knees, he forced himself to meet her eyes, in spite of the very real urge to spew all the contents of his stomach, from this morning’s bowl of Coco Crispies to that ice cream cone. “Until you.”

“And was I?” Claire queried, her tone barely discernable over the muffled crashing of the small waves along the shoreline. “Worth the risk?”

He was nodding before she finished her sentence. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” 

Crap. He’d tried to keep the oaths out of this proposal, but…hell, if he couldn’t keep from cursing around his kid, what hope had he had anyway? 

Claire’s smile broadened, transforming into a beatific beam, setting alight her whole face. She was fucking perfect. “Good.” 

Instantly, without thinking, John reached forward to clasp her hand, which unwound from about her knees to entwine with his. He hoped she didn’t notice the sweaty palms. “Claire,” he said, gazing into her face and trying to ignore his heart ramming against his ribcage. “You…you’ve given me things I never thought I’d ever have. Stability. A…family. A place I can go home to at night without dreading every frigging step it takes me to get there.” He took a breath and squeezed her fingers interlocked with his. “I don’t know how to thank you for that.” 

His princess was looking at him with confusion and mystification written on her face. 'Does she truly have no idea what I’m about to do?' Was the idea that farfetched? John kind of hated himself. “John, you don’t have to.” 

Inching closer to her on the dune, ignoring the annoying feeling of sand grains chafing his thighs, he craned his head further toward hers. “But I want to.”

Claire’s perplexed smile widened a bit. John stared down at their entwined hands. “You know…that day in detention, Dick said something to me. All right, he said a lot of bullshit that day.” She giggled her wind chime-like laugh. “But one thing was…that in five years, my life was gonna be pretty much crap. Well, it’s been six. I think we’re doin’ pretty well for ourselves.”

She nodded, a light in her eyes. “I think so, too.”

John could feel his pulse fluttering like a goddamned hummingbird in his wrist. His heart was beating so loud, he was sure Claire could hear it. The ring pulsed in his jacket pocket. “Here, we have a roof over our heads. Money.” Claire always had money. But her trust fund ensured that this green was all hers. “A pretty great kid. Even if she does throw up a lot.” 

Claire laughed through her nose. He wondered if Dani had puked all over Sporto yet. 

“The American Dream,” she stated as the pad of his thumb drew nervous circles around her knuckle. “It’s what we all want, I guess.” 

'Fuck. Okay, okay. Here I go. Can’t stall anymore. Fucking pussy.' John continued to stare down at her currently ringless hand. “Yeah. And, um…I think there’s only one piece of that ‘American Dream’ puzzle missing…” 

He glanced up to determine her expression, which, again, was only mystified and confused. She really had no idea what he was doing, both a blessing and a curse. “What’s that?” 

John gulped, squelching the enormous urge to upchuck, unwrapped his hand from hers, and reached into his jacket pocket for the velvet ring box. Hesitating only a second, he slipped out the unopen box and displayed his exposed palm in her eye line. 

Claire’s eyes expanded to the size of quarters. Her perfect lips parted and formed a small O. One hand rose to her chest. “*John…*” 

His lips stretched, while inside, his heart was this close to exploding. “I know. I should’ve done this a while ago.” Leaning forward, he grasped her hand once more with his own free one, the one that wasn’t holding the as yet to be open box. He intended to save that for the last second. “Claire, look. I know that I’m far from perfect, okay? I know I fuck up and say and do stupid shit, but—“ 

When she barked a chuckle, it sounded both high and throaty at the same time. He did not know what that meant. 

“—but…God, I can’t envision a future without you in it,” he finished, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t even wanna try. You’re…a part of me. As necessary as…the air in my lungs. The…the blood in my veins. And I know I sound like a stuttering freak, but I’m actually really nervous right now…” 

Claire laughed again, her eyes wide and wet. He didn’t know what that meant, either. 

“You’ve had so many reasons over the years to run screaming for the hills, and you never have.”

She shook her head, slowly, from side to side. Her eyes were still as wide as saucers in her face. “Because I love you, you goofball.”

He grinned. “So…” With one deft flick of his thumb, the box opened. 

A gasp erupted from the Princess’ lips. “My earring!” she cried, bending down to examine the ring he’d put her through a mini-hell over. Stare moving from the thing to his face, she said, “*You* took it.” He nodded. What else could he say? “Why…why didn’t you say anything?”

John plucked the earring-slash-ring out of the box. “What, and ruin the surprise?” 

Her lips ticked with a breathy puff. Taking the ring between his thumb and index finger, grasping it tight so his quaking hand would not drop it in the sand, he splayed open her fingers and placed the circular piece in her palm, just as she’d done with her earring years earlier. Then, he closed her fingers around it.

Claire watched, then cocked her chin, gazing at him like she’d never seen him before. Or maybe like he was doing something incredibly ridiculous, he didn’t know yet. 

“Claire, I love you,” he declared very plainly, making sure there was actual emotion behind his words. Because fuck knew he meant them with every ounce of his being. “Marry me.”

She was in his arms the second the phrase left his mouth. And she was crying. He could feel the warm tears on the side of his neck. Gently, he disengaged from her just far enough to look in her reddened face. “Is that a yes?” 

Claire guffawed and nodded vigorously. “Yes! Yes, of course I will…” 

Only then did the huge amount of tension in his shoulders and neck dissipate. Grinning, he plucked the ring from her palm and slid it on her finger. She let out a cry and hugged him again. 

For the first time in a while, John definitely felt like he’d done good. 

As he rubbed her back, a few yards away, a small clamor rose. Claire broke away and they both looked over her shoulder. The old folks were grinning and clapping. Claire laughed and John reddened, relieved that it was near to damn midnight and no one could see his face. Embarrassed but trying not to show it, he raised one hand in acknowledgement. 

Claire studied the new hardware on her finger, then back into his definitely-not-red face. “You know…I never thought you’d ask.” A titter. “Jackie even suggested *I* ask *you*. ‘It’s the 90s, isn’t it?’” 

John attempted to cover his wince with a snort. “I, uh…someone told me I was being an idiot.” Ahem, not in those exact words, but…the sentiment was there. 

She cocked her head. “Who?”

John shrugged his shoulders to his ears. “My mom. I was, um…afraid, I guess.” 

A wrinkle of confusion appeared between his princess’ eyes. “Afraid? Of what?”

Inhaling, Bender let out a breath of air through his puffed cheeks. “Of turning into my old man.”

Claire frowned. “John, I’ve told you so many times—“ 

“I know,” he broke in, flattening his expression bashfully. “I guess I just…needed to hear it from her. See—“ Once more, he grasped her newly bedecked hand in his. “—I never told you this, but when I was a kid, I sort of developed this…theory.” 

“Theory?” 

John nodded. “That, um, prior to…knocking my ma up and having to get married, my dad was at least a *halfway* decent guy. I mean…there had to be something that drew my mom, right?”

Claire’s concerned gaze ticked from his face down to their hands. “And what’d she say to that?”

He shrugged again. Bender was acutely aware that his attempts to come off as nonchalant were doing just the opposite, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Uh, she pretty much negated that real quick. According to her, Dear Ole Dad was always an asshole.”

Her ensuing smile was gentle. “I could’ve told you that. It takes a certain kind of person to be as cruel to you as he was…” 

John bobbed his head in agreement, idly drawing that same thumb over the diamond on her ring finger. “Guess I just…needed it confirmed. From her. ‘Cus, you know, she was there and all.” 

Her smile brightening, her free hand came up to palm his cheek. Her skin was soft and smelled of roses. “I’m glad she got your ass in gear.” 

He smirked, rose to his feet and helped her up, and they walked back to their room, her head tucked into his neck.

**  
Danielle was just fucking with them now, she had to be. She’d inherited her dad’s jackassery early, and drew delight from driving them mad. 

First, she’d made Andy sit with her until she went to bed—which was over two hours. And had him reclaim that rocking chair every time she woke up. Then, she refused to take the bottle, even Claire’s pumped breastmilk, requiring them to schedule an emergency appointment with Claire’s obstetrician (one they hadn’t told her or John about; Ally saw no reason to worry them unless something was really wrong). Dr. Devers had assured them, chuckling, that the baby was just being stubborn and there was nothing wrong with her. 

She took to the bottle eventually, but only after Andy literally started crying. 

As of now, Allison was stepping out of the shower, her hair drenched and freshly shampooed, following Danielle’s not-so-little spit-take. This time, the puke had gotten in her hair. Screeching, ignoring her husband’s chortling, she raced for the bathroom and locked herself in until she was more than adequately washed. 

Ally had never felt more *Claire* than she had an hour earlier, screaming about her hair and sobbing. Not even after the Princess made her over in her image in detention that time. 

Allison peered into the mirror over the sink and blinked at her reflection. Her skin was pale—it was always pale—but now it was blanched pale and not “cool goth” pale. Beetlejuice would envy the rings under her eyes. Her fingers were actually shaking. 

'No wonder they look like the walking dead all the time'. 

If this was what it was like to be a mom to a newborn, Allison was relieved she had not given in to her ticking biological clock just yet. 

After she changed into a pair of leggings and one of Andy’s t-shirts, which swam on her, Allison returned to the living room. Danielle had just started to crawl the day before, so now the newly mobile infant required extra baby-proofing around the apartment. Andy had gone out and purchased an extra gate in order to block Miss Wanderlust ’90 from escaping the living area and crawling down the corridor. Just in case, they’d also bought one of those levers to bolt down the toilet seat, made sure any cleaning supplies were kept out of her reach, and locked the doors. 

They’d already had an incident where Danielle almost burned the whole floor down after innocently—or not so innocently—knocking over one of Allison’s votive candles. She was not going to use those here again. 

In the living room, Andy had Danielle laid out on the floor and was changing her diaper. Why he was doing this in here instead of in the nursery, where there was a changing table just for this purpose, she had no idea. A grimace of disgust smeared his otherwise handsome face, and Allison sniggered. He’d been avoiding Diaper Duty (Doodie?) all weekend, mumbling excuses and leaving Ally to do it. 

“Ugh,” he groaned, holding his nose with one hand while attempting to clean the baby and affix a new diaper to her bottom with the other. “This is disgusting.”

Allison righted the bottle of talcum powder, which Danielle’s kicking legs had knocked over. “Get used to it, Sporto. When we have our own, we’ll be doing this a lot, according to Claire. Babies can go through a half-dozen diapers a day.” 

Andy’s complexion was tinged with green. Grinning toothlessly, Danielle passed gas and then urinated all over the pad he’d rested her on. Her husband threw up his arms in defeated frustration. 

Ally snickered once more and took over. “Just be grateful she’s not a boy.” 

Andy’s blue eyes widened in horror.

Later that evening, as they were giving Danielle a bath, Allison could’ve sworn that the baby flipped them the bird whilst Ally washed her hair. 

Andy blinked. “Did you see that? Or was it just me?”

Shaking her head, Allison rinsed the Johnson & Johnson out of Danielle’s wiry red hair. “Unless we’re both hallucinating, I saw it, too.”

“Not six months old, and taking after Bender. Next thing you know, she’ll be replacing her formula with Heineken and smoking a joint.” 

Allison giggled. “While also doing her nails and ordering everyone around.”

Andy rolled his eyes. “She already orders everyone around, and she can’t talk yet.” 

Once they dried her off and changed her into the Mrs. Pac-Man pajamas Allison loved, they put her to bed and retreated to the living room to watch "ALF". Halfway through the latest episode, the baby started crying, and Andy banged his head against the nearest wall. 

“Kill me,” he moaned and slugged off down the hallway. 

Allison sighed and walked into the kitchen to make some Orville Redenbacher popcorn. It was going to be a looooooooooong night.  
**  
Claire could not stop admiring her ring. 

She couldn’t help herself; it was just so pretty. And John had been so clever repurposing her earring for the diamond. Sure, she was a wee bit peeved that he’d knowingly kept her in the dark whilst she fruitlessly searched for the thing, but the ends justified the means. 

She had only reluctantly slipped it off to take a shower. It sat in its velvet box atop the sink. She didn’t want to leave it open anywhere where it could fall down a drain or something. 

In their room’s shower stall now, which was spacious and airy and boasted a rainfall faucet, Claire squeezed a quarter-sized blob of conditioner in her palm and massaged the liquid through her hair, a dopey smile on her face. One she had been wearing nonstop for the past hour. Honestly, she’d had no idea this was coming. She could usually read him like a book, but John had never even raised the idea of marriage, and she certainly didn’t want to pressure him. She’d thought, maybe, after he discovered her pregnancy…but when that hadn’t transpired, she’d mostly given up hope. Claire just figured matrimony wasn’t his thing, and she was okay with that. 

Sort of. 

Silently, Claire admitted that this *had* disappointed her a bit, John’s seeming reluctance to walk down the aisle. Not that she hadn’t been expecting it. While she’d been envisioning her wedding since she was a kid, John didn’t particularly strike her as the “wedding fantasy” type. It had taken him a few months just to start referring to her as his girlfriend when they began dating.

She’d always suspected his phobia of true commitment stemmed from his father—most shitty things about John stemmed from his father—but having it confirmed tonight, and assured that he only gave up his No One-Guy-One-Girl Thing rule for her, relieved the low-key anxiety she’d always felt, that his dragging feet had more to do with her specifically than anything else. Was she too much of a bitch? Was the idea of being Claire Standish’s Boyfriend too daunting for a guy like John? Had any of her behavior in detention and/or the early months of their relationship turned him off? 

Claire gazed askance through the shower curtain to where the ring box sat on the porcelain sink and smiled. It seemed that the insecurities she’d harbored in those early days were unfounded. 

Whilst the Princess was getting lost in her memories as the water rained down atop her head, the clinking sound of the shower curtain being pushed aside made her jump back to the present. 

“Oh! John,” she breathed, clutching her chest.

Her shamelessly de-clothed boyfriend—'Fiancé, gotta get used to that!'—slid the curtain shut and cocked a dark eyebrow. “Who’d you think it was, Norman Bates?”

Claire giggled and stepped closer to encircle his neck. “Yeah. Dressed like an old lady.”

Up went the other brow. “Hot.”

Claire laughed and brought her grin to his. She was on high, lost in her own fog where only the two of them existed. Not even the nearby presence of Vernon could puncture her personal Cloud Nine. 

He kissed down the column of her neck, her collarbone, the freckled shoulders that made him gaga. Across the tops of her heaving New Mommy breasts, over the curve of her stomach, which she was still a mite self-conscious about—losing baby weight was hard!—and down and down until she found herself with her eyes closed and having to brace against the shower walls to keep from slipping. She repaid him in kind—boy, did she repay him—and, panting and moaning, he suddenly shut off the water, picked her up beneath her knees, and ran stark ass naked into the bedroom. 

Claire had absolutely zero complaints. 

Afterward, she grinned lazily and wondered if their neighbors next door had been listening. Then told herself that she was a pervert and John was rubbing off on her. And not just physically. 

Looking down at her finger, a flare lit in Claire’s head, she climbed out of bed, and ran, unabashedly nude, into the bathroom. There, she grabbed the velvet box, raced back to bed, and slipped the ring back on her finger. 

She was not letting this thing out of her sight. 

Directly behind her, John chuckled deeply, sleepily, and studied her adorned digit over her shoulder. “So,” he started with an indulgent yawn. “How do you wanna do this?”

By "this", he meant the wedding. *Their* wedding. Claire kept thinking that she was engrossed in a really awesome dream and she’d wake up at any second, Danielle yowling to be fed and John muttering about pancakes for breakfast. 

Her lips stretched into a smile. She’d make him the chocolate chip pancakes he loved when they got back to Chicago. It was the only thing she was confident in cooking. Or baking. Or whatever it was. 

Claire gazed at the sparkly ring on her finger. “Hmm. I don’t know, exactly.” Turning over, she looked up at him whilst he lay on his back, one arm around her waist. “When I was a kid, I always used to envision the perfect wedding. With hundreds of guests and me in a huge princess gown and an enormous twelve-tier wedding cake…”

He sighed and laughed a little. “Of course.” 

"*But,*” she continued pointedly, mock-glaring. “That was all before you. And…I don’t know. It all seems kind of fake, doesn’t it? All of that…it would be to show off, to say ‘My wedding was the best wedding’ and sell the pictures to Time Magazine.” Lethargically, Claire shrugged her shoulders. “All feels unnecessary for us. I mean…” Again, she stared up at him, locking eyes with hers. “…we’ve been together six years. We have a daughter. Who cares what people think?”

That was the first time Claire had uttered those very words and meant them wholeheartedly. She’d used them before, when they’d started seeing each other and were discussing going public with their relationship but, well, Claire *had* cared, just a little. She hated being the subject of malicious gossip. And she’d been an apprehensive teenager. Saying “Who cares what people think?” and fully meaning it were two different things. 

But now, she did. Fully mean them. Because, really, who gave a shit about anyone else’s opinions? Getting married was the important part. The process all just felt…extra. 

On the pillow to the right of hers, John exhaled a distinct breath of relief. “Thank God. Claire.” Rolling over, cheek propped in one hand, he gazed down to regard her. “Um, you know I, uh, want to give you the wedding of your dreams or whatever, and if all that bullshit is what you really want, I’ll go along with it.” He blinked. “But I just want you to know, I’d absolutely fucking hate every second of it.”

Claire guffawed. “I know you would. And my mother would try to take it over, making us both miserable.”

John cringed. “That sounds like my personal version of Hell itself, Cherry, your mom taking over our nuptials. No thanks.”

She had to agree. Nora would send the photos to every society page in the state and beyond, bargaining until she earned top dollar for them—being fabulously wealthy did not prevent her mother from also being comically greedy—probably having John’s head replaced with, like, Michael J. Fox’s. 

“So, what do’ya want to do?” he persisted, tucking his free hand behind his head. He peered at her, eyes sparkling. “We can go to Vegas! Get married by Elvis.”

Chortling, she added, “Or an alien.”

“Right,” John agreed, nodding. He liked his idea, she could tell. “Or, or…we could have one of those naked weddings.”

She stared at him to discern whether he was joking or not. 'Can’t really tell'. “John, I am not getting married in the nude!”

“Why not?” he queried, balancing his chin in hand and grinning. “You can still wear a veil.” 

Claire scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You know…I’d want our friends to be there. And if *we’re* naked, *they’ll* have to be naked.” 

Watching John consider this, a trio of emotions played on his face—bemusement, disgust, and outright horror. Claire giggled. 

“Ugh. Never mind, then,” he said with a shudder. “Seeing Sporto’s bare ass is pretty far down on the list of things I want to accomplish before I die. Like, way down.”

She buried her head in his bicep, shaking with laughter. 

“Nor Brainiac’s pimply behind,” he continued, looking like he’d just eaten a big, slimy bug. “Yuck.”

“How do you know it’s pimply?” 

“Brainiac? Please,” John scoffed. “He’s got the bacne. I am rather confident in stating that his butt resembles the surface of the moon.”

Claire smirked up at him. “Can always ask Jackie.”

“Oh, God. Please, no.” 

She sniggered, and then there was a beat of silence. John’s arm around her waist came up to sift through her hair. “We can do it here…”

John peered at her near his bicep. “Here?”

Claire’s shoulders bobbed. “Yeah. On the beach or on the boardwalk. Invite only close friends and family—“ 

“Does that include Nora?”

“Unfortunately,” she tittered. “Mother will go nuts if she’s not there.”

“Too late. Your mother *is* nuts.”

“Touché,” Claire laughed. “It won’t be a big thing, though. With all that pomp and circumstance.” On the pillow, she turned to regard him. “What do you think?”

John hesitated a second, then nodded his head from side to side. “That could be cool.” Craning his neck, he added, “Unless you’re into that Elvis thing.”

“No, John.” 

On the bedside table, the shrill ring of the phone sounded out as he chuckled. Forehead wrinkling, Claire reached over and plucked the receiver from its cradle. “Um…hello?”

“Claire?”

Ally’s voice. 'Oh, my God, what’s happened?!; Swiftly sitting up, she barked into the phone, “Allison?! What’s wrong?! Did something happen?!” 

On her right, John, too, rose to a sitting position, his face tense. 

“No, no,” Ally rushed to reassure her, and Claire breathed a sigh of relief. She flashed John the “okay” symbol, and he crashed back to the mattress. “Er, just…we can’t get Danielle to sleep. Not that that’s anything new.” This last was added beneath her breath, amusing Claire. “What should we do? We fed her, changed her, gave her the pacifier, put on that frigging Billy Joel song…” 

Lying back amid the pillows and sheets, the tension seeped from Claire’s body. This she knew the answer to. “In that little Fisher-Price radio above her dresser, there’s a tape. It’s John singing ‘I’ll Be There’. Just play it, she’ll go right to sleep.”

There was a beat of disbelieving silence. “*John* singing? You want her to sleep or you want her ears to bleed?”

Claire guffawed. “Trust me. See you guys tomorrow.” And she placed the phone back in its cradle. 

John was observing her. “Everything all right?”

She nodded, stretched out her body, and lay her head on his chest. “Everything’s fine. Danielle just wouldn’t sleep.”

“So what else is new?”  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Liiiiitle nod to the seminal Millennial movie, "The Parent Trap", and the Parker-James twins' mutual love of Peanut Butter and Oreos.
> 
> Note 2: Again, Nick at Nite premiered in '85. It's kinda crazy that now it's showing sitcoms that were on primetime when it bowed, like "Facts of Life" and "MASH".
> 
> Note 3: This is not to be Vernon's sole cameo xD
> 
> Note 4: I tried to think of why Claire, who is "disgustingly, filthy rich" by Molly Ringwald's admission, would attend a random concrete jungle of a public school when her parents could easily afford to send her to any hoity-toity private institution in the country. Hell, the world. So I thought she'd want to be with her friends, who maybe weren't *as* rich as her, and that Mr. Standish would do all in his power to level-up Shermer High. It would also explain why that gargantuan cinderblock would have such a massive, amazing library.
> 
> Note 5: I have a bichon frise. She thinks she's a ferocious guard dog. Bichons will fuck up your ankle.
> 
> Note 6: I plotted this whole chapter out in an outline, scene by scene, Including Ted and Kayla lols
> 
> Note 7: I think John would be less a man of words and more a man of actions. He doesn't exactly strike me as the overly sentimental type.
> 
> Note 8: The Atari 2600, the first vidya game console, came out in 1977, which would've been when John and Ty were ten. The Atari Corp. was started in '72.


	40. Chapter 39: Blind Fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys. I'm a wee bit nervous about posting this chapter. I debated the original ending I wrote, but my Beta insisted that I use the the alternate, that more story would evolve from it. So...Content Warning: it gets pretty dark at the end. If you can't stomach the idea of women in danger, please don't read the last part.

Chapter 39: Blind Fury

Andy had successfully lived through another Noracaine encounter. 

That morning, Claire’s mother—‘How innocent that sounds, like Nora Standish is *just* Claire’s mother’—had shown up at the apartment *way* early, before the attendants arrived (Nora was definitely not on the approved visitors list, for obvious reasons), demanding to be let in at the damn crack of dawn. Before Danielle woke up, even. Muffling a curse, Andy, clad in a pair of gray drawstring sweatpants and a blue Shermer High Wrestling: Class of ’85 t-shirt, unwound himself from Ally’s prone form—if anyone woke her before eleven on a day she wasn’t working, Hell have fury; he’d found that out the hard way—tiptoed past the nursery, and padded into the front foyer. Peering through the little glass peephole wedged in the door, Andy felt himself going a bit ill. 

He’d recognize the flippy blonde hair, huge shoulder pads, and cigarette holder any day. 

Frozen momentarily, Andy debated leaving her outside and pretending he hadn’t heard the doorbell versus letting her in. With a grimace, he accepted his fate and pulled the heavy front door open.

The Noracaine came sashaying inside, clutching a thick hardcover book and reeking of some kind of perfume that was so strong, it made Andy’s eyes water. 

Nora Standish spun on her tottering pumps to face him, hands perched on her hips. “Where is my daughter?” she demanded without preamble.

Andy cleared his throat. “Um, she and Bender—I mean, John—are on vacation.”

Nora quirked one seamlessly plucked eyebrow. “*Vacation*? And they left the child this early? Johnathon would not surprise me, but my daughter is more responsible than that.” 

It was on the tip of the Sport’s tongue to remind her that both Josh and Claire had been raised by nannies pretty much from birth and Nora herself left them as infants to flitter off to the Caribbean. 

Flattening his expression instead, he said, “Allison and I are watching her. Danielle, I mean.” 

Mrs. Standish cringed. “That is what I’m here to discuss. When are *they* due back?”

If he said “today”, the woman would wait here until Claire and Bender darkened the door. Andy felt justified in his little white lie. “A few days.” 

Nora’s collagen-enhanced lips pursed. “Well. That’s inconvenient. I suppose I shall just come back at the end of the week. Please give Claire this when she returns.” She passed the thick tome to Andy. Its cover, embossed in gold, read “The Laws of the Land: Illinois”. “She still has six months to change *Danielle’s* name. I have provided a list of acceptable versions of my own name in the front cover.”

The Sport turned the page. In a horizontal column, elegantly scrawled in thick black ink were: Norma, Noreen, Norina, Lenora, Eleonora, Annora, Honora, and Noor. 

Andy’s lips thinned, and he tried not to laugh. 

“Tell her I recommend Norina,” the crazy lady added with a succinct nod. “It’s Hungarian.” 

The Sport bobbed his head once while, again, trying not to laugh, and showed Nora the door. One the Noracaine left, Andy braced himself against the closed door and whistled a deep breath. 

That evening, while Allison was feeding an abnormally complacent Danielle on the couch, the clamor of familiar voices echoed out in the corridor. One male, one female. 

‘Ah, they’re back.’ 

Andy wondered how the proposal went. Or if Bender had even gone through with it and didn’t pussy-foot out. 

First, he heard muffled rumblings and then Bender’s voice behind the door rang out clear as day. “Good evening, Mrs. L.! Lovely to see ya, as always!” 

‘He seems to be in a chipper mood,’ Andy thought. 

Next echoed the crotchety, smoke-strained response from Mrs. Lowing. “Why’d you have to come back? That nice Clark boy has been watching the baby. *He* happens to be lovely, and has a neat, orderly head of hair.”

Andy blushed, absently lifting a hand to sift through his blond tresses. On the sofa burping Danielle, Allison cackled. 

“He’s a dreamboat, ain’t he?” Bender replied. Andy scoffed, picturing the burnout fluttering his eyelashes and pouting. “So blond and handsome and a fan of tights. A real all-American!” 

Shaking his head, Andy opened the door for them. Claire had one suitcase clutched in hand while Bender balanced her other two and his own bag over his shoulder. Mrs. Lowing spun on the heel of her red slipper and went inside, slamming the door behind her. 

Bender’s shoulders shook with laughter while Claire rolled her eyes. Andy held the door open for the twosome as they—Bender, mostly—dragged their suitcases inside the apartment. 

“Fuck me, Claire! Did you get *more* shoes while we were away?” the burnout demanded while Andy shut the door. 

Claire looked entirely too innocent. “Me? Of course not!”

“My arms were about to pop out of their sockets,” he grumbled, massaging his neck. 

Allison erupted in laughter. Bender glared at her. 

“Oh!” Claire cried as she dashed across the living area to the couch. Bending down, she hefted the growing baby in her arms, beamed, and pressed kisses to her chubby cheeks. “Hi, sweetie! Did you miss Mommy?” Kiss, kiss. “Mommy missed you!” Kiss, kiss. 

Danielle shook the chicken rattle she clutched in her palm. 

Clearing his throat, Andy slid closer to Bender, who was in the process of hanging up his jacket. “So, uh, did you ask her?”

In response, Bender pretended he didn’t hear him and stepped away, whistling under his breath. Andy scowled. “Oh, come on!”

Across the room, Claire was gazing at the infant in her arms with a wrinkled nose. “Allison. What the hell is she wearing?”

Ally continued to guffaw, and Andy shook his head. He *knew* Claire would notice the long, Victorian-style black dress right away, and that it looked just as ridiculous on the baby as it had on the hanger. 

Claire’s lips tightened as Ally continued to laugh and laugh, and she walked Danielle down the hall, presumably to change her into something less…just less. 

Sidling up to Bender, Andy tried once more to get the goods out of the burnout. Predictably, the octave of his whistling increased. 

When the Princess returned with Danielle now clad in a pair of unicorn pajamas, Andy entreated *her* instead. “Bender’s being an asshole, which is nothing new. Claire, did he, um, *ask* you something…while you were away?”

The Sport had never been very good with tact. Or beating around the bush. His tendency to just blurt things out used to annoy the crap out of his mom as a kid.

Bender blinked his eyes heavenward. “Smooth, Sporto. Real smooth.”

“Oh.” He watched as her bee-stung lips stretched, a light appearing in her dark eyes that Andy rarely glimpsed these days, exhausted as she was from raising an infant.  
Holding aloft her free hand in the arm that wasn’t carting Danielle around, she giggled. “Yeah.”

A corner of Bender’s mouth quirked, Andy grinned, relieved that he hadn’t punked out, and Allison exclaimed from the couch. His wife immediately clambered to her feet and approached Claire, fishing in her giant bag for...what appeared to be a small magnifying glass. Placing it to her eye, she crouched down to get a better vantage, adjusted the glass, and straightened. 

“Claire, isn’t that your earring?” she asked, pulling her bedecked hand closer. 

The redhead nodded with a full beam. “Yep. John had it made into a ring.”

That same wrinkle appeared between her eyes. “That’s…actually really romantic.” Craning her neck, she gazed at Bender. “Who are you and what have you done with John?”

Bender scowled. “Hey, I can step it up when I want!” 

Allison snickered. Then, she turned to regard Andy. “You knew about this?”

Feeling a little heat enter his cheeks, Andy nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I didn’t tell you. I was sworn to secrecy.”

Allison pouted. “Why?”

“Because you can’t keep a secret to save your life,” Bender sneered, picking up the suitcases and walking down the hall. 

“I can, too!” she exclaimed—kind of erroneously, Andy had to admit. 

Emerging from the master bedroom, Bender snorted disbelievingly. “For yourself. Keeping a secret for other people? You’d have blabbed in a second.”

Andy’s wife paused to absorb this, then nodded her head from side to side in tacit agreement. It was true. Allison had the capacity to keep whatever information about herself she didn’t want to share to her chest, but if she harbored a piece of gossip about someone else, she went and practically bought a billboard over Michigan Ave. So, Andy had not contested Bender’s desire for all the guys to keep a lid on it. 

It was why no one ever told Ally about any surprise parties. The one time she’d been in the know for Bri’s 20th, it had resulted in the Brainiac being the first to show up for his own party. 

Before he forgot, Andy glanced down at “The Laws of the Land: Illinois”, sighed, and passed it to Claire. “Your mom stopped by. She included a list of ‘acceptable’ names she wants you to change Danielle’s to.”

Claire shook her head. Bender barked a laugh. 

Before they left, Andy pulling his windbreaker on, Allison turned back to the living room from where they stood in the front foyer and added, “Oh. And don’t leave any lit candles lying around.”

Claire was barely listening as she fed Danielle from the bottle. “Why?”

Ally scoffed a laugh. “You’ll see.”  
**

**  
They saw. Holy shit, they saw. 

Apparently, Dani had started crawling while they were away—John was kind of disappointed that he hadn’t personally witnessed that milestone, but there’d be more; he was planning on recording her first steps with the cool RCA he was saving up for—and, now, she was making up for lost time. She got into shit that he never in his life would’ve labeled “dangerous”. Like catching her fingers in the photo album on the coffee table. Or getting her curious hands around a bottle of hand soap. Or attempting to asphyxiate herself with a bag of his Doritos. 

Cleaning up the mess she’d made on the carpet had required deep cleaning on Claire’s part. As of today, the apartment still reeked of processed cheddar cheese. 

Bender had now determined that all babies were self-masochists. The list of new and inventive ways the newly mobile Dani discovered that could—and likely would—result in pain was mindboggling. 

If they were exhausted *before*, trying to mind an infant, now they were wholly shattered in their vain attempts to keep Dani from bruising every part of her body. 

The scariest moment came when, as John was trying to *yet again* assemble that damn swing, Dani crawled to the baby gate at the entrance to the hall. 

Claire, watching him where she stood in the middle of the living room, scoffed behind his back. “John, *why* won’t you just use the directions?!” 

“I don’t need any stinkin’ directions,” he grumbled whilst shoving a Philips screwdriver into something that vaguely resembled a screw. 

He saw Claire step closer to him in his peripheral vision. “It’s plainly obvious that you do because that pile of crap has been sitting there since December.” 

John glanced at her over his shoulder. “I’m almost done.”

“You’ve been saying that for five months.”

Climbing to his feet, absently clutching that same yellow screwdriver, he glowered down at her. “I do *not* need directions. I work with my hands!”

The Princess folded her arms over her chest. “Yes, and you’re great at it, but you make stuff out of *wood*. The swing is solid steel.” 

“I still say I don’t need the directions.”

“Five months says you do.”

In the midst of bickering—and waving, and pulling their hair out; their arguments tended to travel from zero to sixty very quickly—Claire’s gaze darted behind his shoulder, and her eyes broadened. “Oh, my God! John, the baby!”

Bender halted mid-sentence and spun around. Dani was innocently manipulating one of the wooden bars in the gate—when the whole apparatus came loose and started to drop forward. Without thinking, John dove and slid halfway across the room, pulling the kid out of harm’s way and leaving her kicking and crying in his arms. 

Claire breathed a sigh of respite and bent to pluck the kid from his arms, which were held in the air over his head. On his back on the carpet, the gate came crashing down on his ankle. “Ow!”

Cupping a hand over the back of Dani’s head, Claire kissed her and tried to calm her down. “Oh, honey! It’s okay. You’re okay. Don’t cry.”

‘Telling Dani not to cry. Might as well ask the rain not to be wet.’ 

Wincing, John kicked off the gate with his *good* foot and carefully rose to stand. When he lay his throbbing ankle down flat, electric pain shot up his calf, and he cursed. 

Claire exclaimed and led him to the nearest sofa. “Let me get you some ice.” 

She disappeared into the kitchen with a yowling Dani and returned a moment later holding a gelled ice pack in her hand, which she draped over his reddened ankle. “Are you okay?”

John cringed as the icy cold touched his skin. “I’ll live.”

Exhaling, she rubbed Dani’s pajama-clad back. “We’ll need to get a new gate.”

“I’ll find one,” he mumbled, repositioning the ice pack. “Or, hell, I’ll make one. What the fuck kind of cheap-ass baby gate was that?!”

Claire shrugged. In her embrace, the kid suddenly craned her neck and began reaching toward him, whining. “Ohhh,” the princess hummed laughingly. “I, um, think she’s worried about you, John.”

He grinned like a doof, and Claire set the kid down on his chest, where she flattened herself, still wailing like a hyena. John pat her back and chuckled. “Don’t worry, kid. That thing would’a done a lot worse damage to you than it did to me.”

Claire tutted and leaned forward to clutch Dani’s little hand. “She’s gonna be *such* a Daddy’s Girl.” 

John continued grinning. “I see nothing wrong with this. And besides, like mother, like daughter.” 

Once again, he abandoned the swing to put together a new gate. The swing remained half-finished in the living room.

Claire yearned to dive head-first into wedding planning, and he was all too happy to leave the details to her. She scheduled an appointment at some hoity-toity wedding dress salon on Michigan, though they hadn’t set a date for their nuptials yet. There was a just as upscale bakery on Shermer that Claire had always liked, some French place—‘Naturally’—so she took the Audi back there to place an order. John didn’t particularly care what *theme* she chose or whatever as long as the cake was chocolate. He insisted on auditioning potential bands himself, however. Knowing his princess, she’d book some Madonna tribute group. 

Unfortunately, the one thing she couldn’t do herself was meet with the padre at the Queen of All Saints Basilica. Claire’s family had never exactly been *religious*--Nora’s sins alone could fill up an entire King James Bible—but they did go to the huge, ornate cathedral on Sauganash Avenue every Christmas and Easter. Sometimes on Sundays, too, if the mood struck. Claire planned to get the kid baptized there when she was eight-months-old. He had no objections; it wasn’t like his own family had raised him in any particular religion. Sure, they’d acknowledged Christmas and ordered a pizza in on Easter, but that was pretty much it. 

Alas, the padre at the cathedral wouldn’t marry them unless he met both of them. Just before entering the church for their appointment, Bender braced himself. He was *sure* that he’d be smote—‘Smited?’—by God or Zeus or the Holy Ghost or whoever was up there as soon as he stepped foot into the rectory. 

To his immense relief, he did not instantly erupt in wild flames. He still winced whenever he had to pass a crucifix, though.

Father Bachman was a tall, skinny guy in old-timey bicycle wheel glasses—you know, those gargantuan ones that make the wearer look like a grasshopper. When they sat before his ornately carved desk in his office at the back of the cathedral, John expected an immediate dress-down for his less than churchly attire—his usual torn jeans and a Ramones t-shirt—and hair past his collar. 

But the dude surprised him. Padre scanned him over for a second, grinned, and leaned across the table. “Ramones?” 

John glanced down at the shirt he was wearing. “Rock on.”

Padre inclined his head. “’I Wanna Be Sedated’ is great, obviously, but I’m more partial to ‘Rock N’ Roll High School’.”

Bender reached over and smacked the padre’s outstretched hand. Claire shook her head, trying to squelch a smirk of her own.

All right, the man was cool. He could perform their wedding, no problem. 

As they left, John wondered aloud whether Claire should walk down the aisle to “I Wanna Be Sedated”. She nixed that idea. 

The next day, he called his ma in Knoxville to let her know that he’d put a ring on it. She screeched excitedly—Bender had had to pull the phone away from his ear—and promised to be there in person…whenever they got around to setting a date. Laura was in Oak Ridge for the remainder of the summer visiting her folks. Then, he called the Brainiac, who put him on speaker phone. Lady Dork demanded to talk to Claire right away, and he heard them gushing. 

At work the following Wednesday, he had an encounter with the richie owner of the newly finished Lake Forest abode. The dude had been holding a grudge against John because he refused to sell him the rocking chair he’d made for Claire, so he was prepared for a bit of a verbal altercation. But the guy only scowled, handed him a signed blank check, and ordered a whole shitload of personalized furniture for his new house. Including a twin bed for his daughter. 

A blank check from a richie, holy crap. 

There was no other way to cut it—life was looking pretty sweet for John Bender. He now had money in the bank—and burning a hole in his pocket--a great kid who seemed to be taking after him, and he was getting hitched to the only woman he’d ever broken his No One-Guy-One-Girl Rule for. 

Things were on the up. Which, of course, meant that *something* was going to happen to bring him back down to Earth again.

Something he never would've expected.

And it did.  
**  
The day that would upend her life had started out pretty normally for Claire Standish. Wasn’t that how it always went? A person’s world remained business as usual until disaster struck? And for someone like Claire, whose biggest traumas in life had been first the loss of her beloved Grandma Jane, her dad’s mother, and then, a year later, her Chihuahua, Marty, in the eighth grade, a split-second moment like this…it completely blind-sided her. 

On that day, Thursday, May the 17th, Claire rose from bed bright and early as always, still tired but training her body to rise just as the sun was lightening the sky because babies had no concept of time. She lagged into the nursery while John was in the shower, murmured nonsense to a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Danielle, and scooped her up to carry her to the kitchen, where she prepared her bottle. John joined them a few minutes later, dripping wet, to scarf down some of those pancakes he loved while watching a taped episode of “The Simpsons” with Danielle on his lap, laughing uproariously. Danielle, clearly, had no idea what she was looking at, but her father’s gaiety was infectious, so she giggled at the TV whenever he did.

Washing the dishes, Claire glanced over her shoulder into the living room and shook her head as Homer strangled Bart with a “Why you little…!” “I cannot believe you’re letting her watch that crap.”

John guffawed and shoveled another bite of chocolate chip pancake in his gullet. “She’s a baby,” he explained with his mouth full, then swallowed audibly. “She doesn’t know what she’s watching. Only that the yellow cartoon people are fun.” 

Again, Claire’s mouth puckered, but he had a point. 

After his episode ended, he kissed them both and drove off to the office. Claire smiled at how *domestic* it all was, gazing down at the sparkling ring on her finger. Like the earring before it, she took it off at night, replacing it in its velvet box, and put it on again in the morning, as soon as she woke. 

For two hours or so, Claire indulged in a bit of spring cleaning. She wasn’t exactly a *messy* person by nature, but she was no Martha Stewart, either. Having grown up with an entire staff at her disposal, including a couple of maids, she’d never really felt the need to clean up after herself. Or learn to cook. Or even drive for the first year after most of her classmates were already doing so. She had chefs, she had cleaning people, she had a driver. What difference did it make?

These days, well, she didn’t have any of that, plus an infant and a boyfriend--*fiancé*--who worked all day. She figured now was as good a time as any to learn. And to up her cleaning game. 

Breaking out John’s stupid R2D2 vacuum, she started with the living room and the hallway, graduating to deep-cleaning the carpet later on. She was on her hands and knees until about midday. When Claire looked down at her knees, she cringed and was grateful that she hadn’t changed out of her pajamas. 

After dressing herself in a pair of leggings and a shoulder-bearing pink t-shirt, Claire stuffed her feet inside a pair of New Balances, buckled Danielle into her stroller, grabbed her yoga mat, and left Housely. She had recently stared classes in hatha yoga, though fuck her if she comprehended the difference between the many styles. When the lady at her studio evaluated her and declared her fit for “hatha” yoga, Claire just nodded and tried very hard not to look confused. 

Her yoga studio, Nasty Namaste (seriously), was situated near Ally and Andy’s place—actually, just next door to the army surplus store. Claire dropped the baby off at her friend’s, who volunteered to watch her while Andy was at work so that Claire could have some Me Time. She was just starting to rediscover herself post-birth. Up until, well, *now*, her life had mainly been filled with formula and breast pumps and baby puke. 

Once she dropped off the baby and her many accessories—diapers, bottles, toys, pacifier, talcum powder, baby wipes—Claire dashed down the hall and out the door toward Nasty Namaste. There, as the class started, she chatted in the back of the studio with another new mom until their absurdly fit instructor berated them. 

An hour and a half later, Claire sprinted out of the studio and checked her watch. She had thirty minutes before she had to pick up Danielle. On cue, her stomach grumbled, and she ducked into the Blimpie’s next door to get a sandwich to take home. She hadn’t had lunch yet.

Upon exiting the sandwich shop, six-inch turkey sub in hand, she took a step forward and tripped over her own shoelace. Once she regained her balance, Claire, exasperated, bent down to remedy her unfastened sneaker…

…when she heard nearby screaming. 

Instinctively lifting her head, Claire’s blood froze as a car came barreling toward her, its grille shiny and polished and grinning. She only possessed the wherewithal to clamber to her feet before there was a kaleidoscope of pain and her world went black.  
**  
May the 17th had also started rather uneventfully for Allison R̶e̶y̶n̶o̶l̶d̶s̶ Clark (she had to constantly correct herself when signing checks or penciling comments on sketch submissions). The clock radio woke her at 11:45—which was just fifteen minutes before Claire was expected with Danielle, oops—she quickly brushed her teeth, dressed, and scarfed down a couple of Poptarts, and, when Claire dropped the baby off, spent the next hour with her chilling out. Feeding her. Bathing her. Watching cartoons. 

She also taught her how to play Tetris on the Gameboy, and even let her try a level. In a new game. Allison was *not* going to risk her score, no siree. 

As the baby slept in her carrier, she spent the quiet time working on her latest project—a sculpture of a cactus. She was hoping to expand into other artistic mediums using the knowledge she’d gleaned over the years in elective classes at the School at the Art Institute of Chicago. She also planned to try her hand at model building, jewelry making, and even house painting. 

As she was forming one arm of the cactus, she overheard a muffled clamor outside her window, but Allison paid it no mind. This was Chicago; there was always *something* going on. 

At half past three, Claire still hadn’t arrived to pick up Danielle. Allison wasn’t surprised; the Princess had never exactly been the punctual type. A little annoyed, she went back to her cactus for another fifteen minutes. 

Still no Claire.

A wee bit concerned now, Ally abandoned her project and traipsed across the floor to the phone, intending on calling Claire’s mobile. Just before her fingers could grasp the receiver, she glanced down at her dirty hands, which were saturated with grayish-brown clay. Cringing, she moved to the kitchen sink to wash off the detritus—as the phone rang. The second her hands were clean, the machine picked up, and she leaped atop the kitchen counter to listen, legs dangling a foot off the floor. She was sure that it was going to be either Claire apologizing or some lame telemarketer. 

At once, the cool purple answering machine beside the boring white phone in the living area beeped and automatically played the message she and Andy had recorded. “Hi, this is Andy!”

“And this is Allison!”

“And we…Al, do we *really* have to do this?”

“Shh, *yes*! Every newly married couple has a corny rehearsed answering machine message.”

“Yeah, but you’re not corny and you don’t rehearse stuff.”

“I know! That’s what makes it funny! We’re being ironic.”

Allison couldn’t squash the grin that threatened. She remembered when they’d recorded this thing a few weeks ago. She could picture herself standing over the machine with her hands on her hips whilst her husband looked bemused at the whole venture. 

“But not many people will know that, Al. They’ll think we’re seriously this lame.”

“*We’ll* know. And our friends will know. That’s the important thing. Anyway.” Her voice rose an octave and transformed into a much friendlier version. “We’re not at home right now! So leave your name…”

Over the tape, Andy sighed. “…number…”

“And reason for calling, and we’ll get back to you ASAP!”

“…uh, thank you for calling the Clark household. Jesus, the guys are *never* gonna leave me alone after this…”

The machine beeped. Allison strained to listen, expecting Claire's half-assed apologies, but it was Andy’s familiar voice that sounded over the machine. Sitting up straighter, she craned her head to stare at the device. 

“Al, it’s me,” breathed her husband’s curiously frantic tone. “Look, you’ve gotta come down to the hospital. Um, Shermer General. I was on my way home and…there’s been an accident—“ 

At this, Allison lept off the counter, her heart seizing in her chest. 

“It’s not me,” Andy rushed to assure her, as though reading mind before she could even give substance to the thought. “But you’ve gotta come, all right? Just…hurry!”

Ally didn’t need to be beseeched twice. Grabbing her oversized bag and car keys, then bending to pick up the baby carrier, she dashed out the front door, down the steps, and out of the building.  
**  
The news hit Brian with all the ferocity of an oncoming freight train. 

Three weeks before the spring quarter ended and he and Jackie could return to Chicago, on May the 17th, he was in his Neuro Dynamics class, furiously taking notes as his professor, renown neurosurgeon, Dr. Cardini, dictated them. The course was three hours long, and the only class he had on Thursdays. It was exhausting, mind-bending work, but Brian was determined. There was nothing he wanted more than to be a successful neurologist. 

Jackie had already completed her classes for the day and had gone back to their apartment, the one that habitually smelled of pizza sauce and garlic. ‘She’s probably eating my gummy worms again,’ Brian grumbled in his mind. He had still not gotten over that, nope, nope. Having worn braces for four years, chewy, gooey foods like gummies were a strict no-no. Now that his teeth were braces-free, he enjoyed indulging in all the junk he couldn’t have before. His gummy worms were *sacred*! 

When his class was over, he packed up his things, bid good day to Dr. Cardini, retrieved his latest graded quiz, and walked out to the quad. There, he climbed in the front seat of his ancient Volkswagen and pulled out of the lot, driving back toward his apartment. 

In the pizza parlor, he got a medium pepperoni, a few Cokes, and whistled while climbing the steps to his and Jackie’s digs. His girlfriend was seated at the small table in the kitchen. When she saw him come through the door, she held up an index finger and pointed to the phone she held with the other hand, her brow furrowed and her lips parted in a sort of O-shape. 

‘Odd. I hope Sylvia is okay.’

Then, she met his eyes, and the barefaced concern increased.

Confused, Brian observed whilst she hung up the phone, breathed deeply, and turned to face him. “That was Andy on the phone. Brian, there’s been an accident…”

With every word that followed, Brian grew less and less tethered to the world.  
**  
Work on Thursday, May 17th started out as basic as any day. 

He entered homebase on the West Side as usual, hung up his jacket as usual, shot the shit for a few minutes with Josh—his future brother-in-law, holy crap—at the secretary’s desk as usual, and retreated to his workspace in the back as usual. John wanted to get a head-start on all that custom furniture Mr. Richie Pants had ordered. The guy was paying him a buttload; he could put off completing the new spice rack he was making for the apartment. Claire was forever losing that shit, all of which, for now, were haphazardly lounging in the kitchen’s Junk Box. Every kitchen had its own Junk Box. All the crap one had no idea where to put, it went in the Junk Box. 

Over the years, John had not just steadily improved his carpentry skills but his art ones, as well—with Basketcase’s assistance. They would sit around the coffee table with a sketch pad and a few number 2 pencils—not forgotten this time!—and she’d tutor him in the ways of the Starving Artist. The importance of shading. Having as steady a hand as possible. The difference between perspective and linear perspective. Of course, Al had cracked the odd joke here and there—“Is that a lamp or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from ‘Ghostbusters’?”—but, in general, she was informative and persistent without being annoying about it. Allison took art and art instruction very seriously. A good thing, because, with his job, he kinda needed to know how to draw. Just a little. 

John was in the midst of doing just this. Mr. Richie Pants had been frustratingly vague about what type of bed he wanted for his five-year-old daughter. All he knew was that she slept in a twin and liked the color purple. Bender had plotted and inevitably ixnayed a half-dozen ideas so far, from ‘The Little Mermaid’ to a dinosaur theme. He eventually settled on what was to be his final attempt, a twin bedframe carved of white oak that he planned to paint violet, complete with heart-shaped cutouts at the headboard and footrest and the kid’s name, Madison, carved into the top, just above where the pillows would go. The bed would be four-poster in case Madison wanted to put in a canopy. 

Roughly, he sketched out his idea, then proceeded to add a bit more detail, hearing Allison’s voice chirping in his head. “Keep your lines as straight as possible.” “Make sure to add touches that denote the texture of whatever it is you’re drawing; potential customers should almost be able to *feel* the thing.” “For God’s sake, remember to shade, shade, shade!” John slowly shook his head, chuckling. 

At around half past one, as was planned, Sporto dropped by after straight up lying to his boss that his stomach was upset. ‘Good thing his boss didn’t have any Pepto in the office.’ 

“Oh, Johnathon! Andrew has darkened the doorway,” Clarence Joshua Adalbert Standish called through the spankin’ new intercom system Big Bill'd had installed. No more having to yell until his voice cracked like the Brainiac’s to get someone’s attention.

John wiped his hands on a nearby cloth and walked into the front office. The Sport smirked when he saw him. “Ready to go?”

Bender grumbled and muttered something he supposed meant “yes”. The stupid smirk on Andy’s face only grew, and John scowled, trying not to pout. Today, they were checking out suits and shit. Because he and Claire weren’t having a naked wedding, he kinda needed duds. 

When the Sport had asked him what he was planning to wear to the thing, John shrugged and widely gestured to the clothes he was wearing, a pair of Dickies and a Ninja Turtles t-shirt. Andy had laughed until his skin turned puce and demanded to take him—ugh--*shopping*. He fucking loathed trying on stuff, but the Sport was adamant, and Claire *had* told him he still needed to wear a suit.

Jesus, was he pussy-whipped.

Snorting in spite of himself, John grabbed his jacket. “As ready as I’ll ever be, Sporto.”

“Have fuuuu-nnnn!” Josh trilled as they exited. John flipped him off without looking back. The older Standish’s snickers followed him outside. 

Suits 20/20 was about twenty minutes from Housely and probably the closest penguin retailer he could afford. There was a place on Michigan Avenue, but fuck him if he was blowing a few grand on a suit he’d wear once and loathe every minute he was in it. 

He tried on suit after suit at Andy’s urging. He tried everything from a gray Jil Sander to a striped Tommy Hilfiger that rather made him look like an old-timey gangster to a weird spotted…*thing* from Brioni, which he was certain the Sport had picked out as a joke, for he immediately took a Polaroid once he exited the fitting room. 

“You look so stupid,” Sporto was doubled over laughing, his face as red as a beat. 

Bender’s expression flattened. He was not amused. “I thought you were supposed to be *helping*. Silly me.”

Still chortling, he braced his hand on a nearby rack then pushed himself up. “Sorry, man. I am, I am, I promise. I’ll be totally serious from now on.”

John folded his arms over the stupid polka dotted suit. “Scout’s honor?”

Sporto nodded with a salute. 

Ultimately, he settled on another Tommy, this one gray and single-breasted. Minus the twenties gangbanger stripes. While he tried it on, the store’s tailor stuck pins and adhesive paper to arbitrary places on the suit. He felt like a pin cushion. 

Once *that* was finished—‘Thank fuck’—they left the suit to be hemmed and taken in and whatnot and climbed into Andy’s still hilarious minivan. It was green and planked, kind of the minivan version of the car the Griswolds drove. It even had childproof windows and locks. 

“Sporto, what the hell is the point of the childproof stuff?” Bender taunted from the bucket seats in the back row. “Afraid you’re gonna fall out?”

He observed Andy rolling his eyes in the rearview mirror. “No, you dink. My mom activated them years ago. I, uh, just don’t know how to turn them off.” 

That was even funnier. 

As they drove along Highway 50, a cop sauntered up to the ridiculous automobile. Unconsciously, John began thumbing through his wallet for his driver’s license. Andy rolled down the driver’s side window, the only one without the locks. “Yes, officer?” 

The cop cleared his throat. “You boys are gonna have to take that detour.” With a chubby, greasy finger, the pig pointed to a side street with an orange DETOUR sign. “Been an accident.” 

“What sort of accident?”

Copper shrugged and took a bite of his strawberry frosted donut. “Car drove up on the sidewalk and hit a young girl. Redhead. Early twenties. Looked kinda familiar, to be honest.”

John suddenly paused in rifling through his wallet—the same black leather wallet Claire had given him for his birthday. Feeling a waterfall of dread creeping up the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand erect, he leaned forward, fingers pressing hard into the seat before him. “Where was this?”

The cop took another bite. “Just down the road from Millennium Park,” he explained with his mouth full. 

Andy turned and met John’s eyes. He knew his were about as wide as the Sport’s. 

Claire was going to the yoga studio today.

‘It’s not her, it *can’t* be her. What are the odds?’

They took the detour. But Andy made a sharp turn back onto 50 and drove toward Millennium Park, where there were flashing lights and cop cars and an ambulance. And a woman nearby talking to a police officer.

Bender had a *bad* feeling. And if there was one thing he’d learned over the years, it was to trust his gut.

John jumped the second row and slid open the minivan’s door before Andy came to a full stop. His booted feet stomped against the tarmac as he ran. And ran. And ran. He didn’t pause once until he reached the crash site. 

What he saw made his heart freeze in his chest. 

A bloodied and unconscious Claire was being pulled from the wreckage and carefully laid on a stretcher. 

John didn’t think. He had no time for thoughts. He just raced toward the stretcher, placed a hand on Claire’s still warm arm, and yelled some nonsense not even he understood. The plainclothes cop on the scene asked him if he knew her. When he vigorously nodded and gave her name, the cop went pale. 

“Claire *Standish*?! As in Richard Standish’s *daughter*? Oh, shit,” the cop groaned. “The papers will have a field day. We need to keep this hush-hush for as long as possible.”

Bender narrowed his eyes, his already desperate mind fueling his fury, and grabbed the dude by the lapels of his stupidly expensive trench coat. “That’s my girlf—fiancée! I don’t give a fuck about hush-hush. You fucking help her or I swear to God—“ 

The plainclothes cop gulped audibly. “Of course, s—sir. We’re gonna do everything we can.”

With a sneer, John let him go, causing him to stumble. He spun toward the stretcher, where his broken and bleeding princess was being hauled into the back of an ambulance. A few feet away, Andy stood talking to the woman, who kept repeating, in a panic, that she’d witnessed the whole thing.

What the FUCK had happened?! WHAT “whole thing”?! 

Panicked gaze searching from one direction to the next, he searched for any sign of Dani’s stroller, any hint that she’d been here when this all went down. His heart was ramming in his ribcage and he felt as if he would faint on the spot.

Andy, seemingly reading his mind, curled a hand around his shoulder. “She’s with Allison. Claire dropped her off before yoga.”

Breathing a huge sigh of release, the tension only marginally leaving his shoulders, he turned back to the ambulance, his hands shaking. On the stretcher, Claire was being positioned and treated by quick-footed EMTs inside the ambulance. Not knowing what else to do and utterly bewildered, he pushed himself inside and gripped Claire’s static, inert hand. Her ring still glistened on her motionless finger. 

In a hollow tone, he told the driver to take her to Shermer General. He knew Rich donated there regularly. 

As the ambulance pulled out, John zeroed in on the wreckage of the car that had done this. It was a charcoal gray Dodge, at least a decade old, blaring the number and address on its side in screaming green. RIFKIN WATERWORKS, 77 GRAND STEET, SHERMER, IL. 

That was where his father worked. 

John’s fist clenched, his whole body tensing. Claire was unconscious and bleeding on a stretcher. He was in an ambulance with her for the second time since Dani was born.

The only saving grace was that the baby was safely with Allison.

This was his old man’s doing, he was sure of it. And the fucking coward had run off, to boot. 

‘Oh, this time, I really am going to kill him. He’s gonna fucking pay.’ 

He kissed Claire’s steady hand as the ambulance drove to Shermer. Thoughts filled with all the rage and fury contained within for twenty-two years.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: My dad used to let me watch The Simpsons with him when I was a baby. Until I was five years old, my mom would be over his shoulder demanding why he let me watch "that crap". He also took me to the South Park movie when I was 11. I am in my 30s. He's still kicking himself about it.
> 
> Note 2: I do hatha yoga but I don't really know what it means.
> 
> Note 3: Okay, I hope this wasn't too jump-the-sharky. I've been trying to leave breadcrumbs that Jake was going to do *something* but not even I knew what it was yet. I originally thought of him going after John, but said Beta reader convinced me that someone who is a classic abuser, who I've established as a piece of human garbage, would have no qualms about going after a helpless woman to get to his own son. So I changed it. And changed it again, thinking it was too out there. Then my Beta talked me into changing it back. Yes, this HAS been my biggest concern the past few days, thank you, quarantine.


	41. Chapter 40: Misery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this out a lot sooner than I would've anticipated. Most likely because I have literally nothing else to do but binge crap on Netflix.

Chapter 40: Misery 

Three days. Claire had been unconscious for three days.

At least, Andy considered with a sigh, the attending physician at Shermer General, Dr. Schwartz, was only calling her current state “unconscious” and not “comatose”. Bender would’ve had a breakdown if that word left the trauma ward doctor’s lips. As it was, since there didn’t appear to be any lasting brain abnormalities—‘Thank God!’—according to the myriad MRIs and CAT scans and EEGs and whatever the hell else the doctor had ordered, her status was considered “unconscious” instead. If more and more days passed and…she failed to wake up, that status might change. 

Everyone had visited, everyone in the Standishes’ orbit. From Brian and Jackie—who’d landed at O’Hare two days previous—to Ty and Megan, Stubbie and Eleanor, Sloane, Ferris, and Cameron, Dr. and Mrs. Devers, some of Bender’s old friends from Shermer he didn’t see as much anymore like Ash Langley and Gavin Treadmore, Benny Hanson, even crotchety Mrs. Lowing had visited. The look she’d given Bender on the way out could melt steel; for the first time, the guy had remained silent in response, a dead inside look on his face. 

Of course, Claire’s parents were here, too, as well as Josh and his boyfriend. Claire’s father, particularly, kept a constant vigil and regularly barked orders at the nurses and doctors and the rest of the hospital staff, threatening to have their pay docked if they didn’t figure out what the hell was keeping his baby from waking up, now, now, NOW. The red in his face matched the red in his hair perfectly. It was kind of terrifying, bearing witness to the more infamous side of Richard Standish. 

Josh tried to keep the tears at bay, but his maroon skin belied his true emotions, and he burst into tears irregularly. 

Nora was the worst, though that was to be expected. Ever the opportunist, and a narcissist, the Standish matriarch had chosen to make her daughter’s uncertain condition all about her. Sobbing on the phone with her friends. Making sure she was seen hovering at Claire’s bedside—but always looking tip to toe Nora as she did so. Chewing the scenery as she begged Dr. Schwartz and his team to “save her precious diamond”. It was all *very* transparent, so much so that Richard had lambasted her after two days of this nonsense, causing quite a scene and the guy to damn near pop a vein. 

As soon as *that* behavior was halted, she was on Bender like white on rice, even more so than the first day. 

“This is YOUR fault!” she bellowed, stabbing one claw-fingered nail into his chest. Bender himself appeared to be barely able to hold himself upright; the minute motion sent him stumbling backward a few paces. 

Richard stepped forward, raising a calming hand. “Now, Nora—“

The Noracaine ignored him. “The son bears the sins of the father! I *knew* you were bad news from the start! My gut instinct has never let me down! You’re nothing but a pile of *trash* who almost got my child killed!”

Still, Bender didn’t say anything, just stood there, taking it. Watching from around the corner of Claire’s ICU room, amidst the steady beeping of her heart monitor, Andy expected him to fire back at her, to point out how she was using this as an excuse to accrue sympathy and clout from her shallow friends, for being visibly fake, for eating the scenery like she was Joan fucking Crawford. 

And yet, he said nothing.

Richard did, however. Eyebrows forming a red V on his forehead, he inched closer to his irate wife. “Nora!”

Once more, she continued to disregard him. The Noracaine would not be deterred in this dressing-down she’d always wanted to give. “My daughter is lying unconscious in a hospital bed! My God, even if she wakes up, she’ll have *scars* and probably be *permanently deformed*!” ‘Truly,’ Andy thought, shaking his head in incredulity. ‘The worst fate Nora can conceive of. *Scars*.’ “And that’s because of YOU! YOU came into her life when you knew you were a gum stain on her shoe! YOU should’ve stayed away! Look at what you’ve DONE! What have you to say for yourself?!”

Bender sighed, like he was deflating of air, and ran a tired hand through his hair. “Nothing.”

That, it seemed, surprised even Nora. The self-righteously angry expression momentarily dropped. 

“Nothing,” he said again. “You’re exactly right.”

And then he left the room, marched across the hall, and slammed his fist so hard into the wall, it left a crumbling hole. The nurses nearby jumped with the sound. Allison, Brian and Jackie, slouched in three of the waiting room chairs with the baby at their feet, did also. Danielle began to cry. 

Back in the ICU, Nora’s startled, perplexed expression morphed into one of balefulness yet again. As she started to follow him, Richard physically pulled her back, said something to her Andy couldn’t hear, and she flattened her lips and looked away. Whatever it was had done the trick to get the Noracaine off his scent. 

‘Good. As if the guy doesn’t have enough to worry about right now.’

Andy observed Mr. Standish cross the hall and disengage Bender’s fist. He was the only one he’d let do so, having repeatedly shunned the standby nurses’ attempts.

He regarded the hole in the wall warily. Richard shook his head. “Don’t worry about that. Let’s get your hand fixed up.”

Bender shook his head, staring down at his reddened knuckles. “I deserve this pain.”

“Stop that right now,” Mr. Standish warned, waggling an index finger. “Despite what my *wife* says, this wasn’t your fault. Now, come on. The x-ray machines are upstairs.”

As they disappeared down the hall, Andy met Allison’s worried gaze. 

Later that night, after most of the others had retired to the nearby motel—except for Eleanor, who remained by Allison’s side while his wife slept, running her fingers through her hair—Andy carried Danielle into Claire’s room. Bender was by Claire’s bedside, alone, while Mr. Standish barked some more orders at his daughter’s medical staff. His hands gripped the sides of his head, and he looked about ready to keel over. 

“Hey, man,” Andy said beneath his breath, grabbing a nylon chair beside his. It was a nice room as far as hospital rooms went, he had to admit. Spacious. A TV in a small armoire. A bed that looked like an actual bed instead of a stretcher. Could’ve been someone’s apartment if not for the myriad machines hooked up to Claire’s inert body. He winced at seeing his friend laid out like that, an IV in her hand, a monitor clipped to her finger, a cannula in her nose, and her casted leg braced in a sling. 

In his lap, Danielle was pinching toward her motionless mother and yowling. She’d barely stopped for three days.

“Hey,” Bender returned without looking up. His fingers were entangled with Claire’s, the same hand on which she usually wore her ring. Josh had removed it and rested it on a bedside table so it didn’t get lost. 

‘Damn but he sounds exhausted.’ Had he slept at all the whole time?

Andy watched the steady rhythm of Claire’s chest rise and fall, then glanced down at the top of Danielle’s head. She was now reaching toward her dad. “I, uh, think she wants you.”

Tiredly, the dude forced a ghost of a smile, gently lowered Claire’s hand to her side, and dragged Danielle into his own lap. Instantly, she calmed down somewhat. He was always a little…flabbergasted watching his friend with his kid. It was like…when she was near, a brick wall came down that separated Bender his buddy and Bender the father.

“Hey, kid,” he soothed, bouncing the infant on one knee. In one small hand, she held a plastic multicolored ring. Danielle had recently begun teething, and Andy had pulled it out of the hospital’s kitchen for her a few moments earlier. After gnawing on it for a minute, she popped the thing out to present to the both of them as though a trophy. Andy laughed. “Yes, I see. Chompers growin’ in, are they?”

She shook the ring like it was a maraca and chewed on it some more. Bender kissed the back of her head and held her to him for a moment, as if telling himself she was really there. Andy understood. Claire in that hospital bed had to be breaking his heart. He couldn’t fathom if it’d been the both of them. 

Exhaling through puffed cheeks, the burnout leaned his head back against the top of the chair. “Dani shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have to see her mom like…this.” 

“You want me to bring her back to the apartment?” Andy held out his hands expectantly.

Passing her into them, he nodded. “Yeah. Um, could you bring her back to our…to Housely? I think she needs familiarity right now.”

Andy nodded. He’d do whatever the guy asked. Bender reached in his jeans pocket and pulled out a set of keys, hesitated for only a second, then handed them to the Sport. “It’s, um, the key that says THIS ONE on it. Claire…did it. Because I was always forgetting which…” 

As the last word trailed off, a hitch croaked in his throat. Andy curled his hand around his shoulder. He didn’t know what else to do. He rarely glimpsed this side of his friend, the more sensitive side, the broken side. And when he did, there were never, ever tears threatening. Right now, they shone, wet and unshed, in his eyes. 

“Fuck,” he added, lifting an arm to swipe viciously at his damp orbs. 

A tad awkward, Andy shifted in his chair. He wished so hard he could do more, do *anything*, but he was at a loss. There, one of his best friends was lying immobile on the bed before him while machines pumped life into her, and another of his best friends was minding her, someone he loved very much, trying not to suffocate under his own self-perceived guilt. 

Not knowing what else to do, Andy placed one hand on his arm. “You all right, man?” 

It was a stupid, stupid question, *Of course* he wasn’t all right. What else could he say? Bender was far too smart to fall for meaningless platitudes, and he felt trite giving voice to them anyway. 

Wiping his eyes with his sleeve once more, Bender nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be…I’ll be all right. Just…take Dani back to the apartment, would you?”

Andy agreed, climbing to his feet and holding the baby tighter. She immediately began to cry again, realizing that she was leaving behind her father. 

Bender leaned forward, a ghostly smile Andy knew was coerced on his face, and squeezed Danielle’s fist. “You go now, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow, kid.” 

He told her he loved her, which was the first time the Sport had *ever* heard Bender use those words in any context, he shouldered her diaper bag, and Andy exited the room. Assisting a bleary-eyed Allison to her feet, he smiled shakily at Eleanor. “Thanks for stayin’.”

Allison’s sister shook her blonde head. Her hair was down to her collarbone now. “No thanks necessary. Steve can live without me for one night.” 

It took a second for Andy to realize that she was referring to Stubbie. ‘So, she calls him “Steve”, does she?’

He would’ve been amused in any other situation than the one they were currently in, standing outside a friend’s ICU hospital room while another friend sat vigil. 

Andy motioned to the diaper bag on his shoulder. “Bender wants us to take her back to the apartment. And, you know, stay there, obviously.” He glanced at Allison. “Okay by you?” When she acquiesced tiredly, he turned to Eleanor. “Place has a pullout couch if you want it.”

Eleanor gazed down at the solid gold Rolex she wore. “Jeez, it’s after midnight. I believe I will take you up on that offer.” 

As they meandered out of Shermer General, he sent up a silent prayer.  
**  
John didn’t know how long he’d been drifting in and out of wakefulness. 

Still slouching in that same chair by Claire’s bedside, he could feel his grip on her hand slacken and tighten, slacken and tighten. Whenever he caught himself drifting off, he grew angry. She was lying here, unconscious, because of *him*. The least he could do was stay the hell awake, watch over her. 

That was what he kept telling himself, anyway. But, alas, it didn’t seem to prevent him from catching a few involuntary Zs here and there. That was how Rich must’ve found him, dropping off like the inconsiderate shithead he was, because the next thing he knew, he was being gently shaken awake and Mr. Standish’s voice was rumbling in his ear. 

“John,” he said, resting one hand on his shoulder. “Go on home, son. Get some real sleep.”

Blinking himself more fully awake, John’s heart clenched. He didn’t deserve to be called “son”—not by this man, not by anyone. Except maybe by his own shitheel of a father. The one who’d done this in the first place. 

“I’m not tired, I’m all right,” he mumbled whilst he sat up straighter in the chair. His voice sounded strained and croaky to his own ears. 

Rich sighed and waved a plastic foam cup in his eye line. “Something hot. They didn’t have coffee or tea, so I got hot coco.”

Nodding once, John grasped the proffered beverage. He winced upon taking a sip of the stuff. “For how much you donate to this place, you’d think they could afford a better hot chocolate machine.”

Rich huffed a laugh. “I’ll let them know. Or I’ll buy one myself.”

John nodded, absently took another sip of the watery hot chocolate, and turned back to Claire. Or, more accurately, Claire and the bed in which she lay and the machines in which pumped medicine into her.

All of the above she needed—because he’d failed to protect her. Because his old man saw fit to take out his rage on an innocent young woman. To get to him. 

Hell, because he had appeared in her life in the first place. 

Normally, John didn’t put much stock in anything Nora Standish had to say. But, on this, he was convinced she was one-hundred percent right. He should never have *dared* with Claire, not Claire Standish, the daughter of the most powerful man in Chicago. He should have stayed away after that fateful Saturday. He never should’ve brought his filthy baggage into her pristine life. 

And now look where she was. Prone in a hospital bed, a half dozen wires sticking out of her, her right leg encased in a cumbersome blue cast, fucking unconscious. 

His fault. All his damn fault. 

More tears escaping his eyes, John moaned and lowered his head to the guardrail on Claire’s bed, burying it in his arms. Rich patted him on the back.

He didn’t deserve *that*, either. 

“Come on, kid,” he heard Richard entreaty, Claire’s father’s voice muffled around the pillow of his arms. John only picked his head up far enough to regard him. “I know my daughter. She’s strong and stubborn as hell. She certainly won’t let a little…a little thing like this…take her down.” 

Bender wasn’t sure who the guy was trying to convince more—John or himself. 

“She’s tough,” he reiterated, nodding at his own assertion. “She’s got fire in her veins, remember?”

John breathed a halfhearted laugh. “Overheard that, did you?”

The first night here, sitting exactly where he was now, he talked to Claire like she could hear him—and maybe she could. He urged her to beat this, that she was a lot stronger than she realized. She had fire in her veins. It was the same sequence of words he’d used to rile her during Dani’s delivery. 

“How do you think Claire became such an expert eavesdropper?” 

He chuckled under his breath, stared at Claire’s still form for a moment, then glanced at Mr. Standish out the corner of his eye. A question was on the tip of his tongue to ask the man, one he’d been wanting to know the answer to for years but hadn’t had the guts to ask. Now, he figured, he didn’t have much else to lose. “Can I ask you somethin’?” 

Richard took a sip of his own hot chocolate, grimaced, and said, “Shoot.”

In his lap, Bender played with his hands, wishing he had his gloves to fiddle with. In the past, when he was nervous, he would sometimes undo and refasten the Velcro until the sucking noise drove him batty. “Can I, um… I’ve always wanted to know…why didn’t you have a heart attack when Claire first brought me to meet you? I mean…” He shrugged lethargically. “I’m sure I wasn’t exactly any of the Chad Worthington-Smythes she’d dated in the past. So…why didn’t you go nuts like Nor—Mrs. Standish did?”

That day, Nora had first thought she was on “Candid Camera”. Then, once she realized her daughter was serious, dashed for the nearest phone to call the cops. 

Rich chuckled softly. “Would you have liked me to?”

John’s shoulders bobbed. “I don’t know, I guess.” 

Clearing his throat, Claire’s father took one more sip of the watery confection, then threw the remains in the wastebasket. “To tell you the truth,” he began. John could feel his gaze on the side of his face. “You reminded me of…well, me.” 

*That* made him turn his head to stare at him, so fast, he almost got whiplash. “*Me*?”

Mr. Standish nodded his red head. “Eeyup.” He stared straight ahead at his daughter, lying in that bed, beautiful eyes closed to the world. Resting an arm on her bedrail, he went on. “Back when I was a kid, I was…I guess you’d call it a punk. Though I think I was more a hippie.”

John quirked one eyebrow and sipped at his slightly chocolatey hot water. “Like a flower child?”

Rich inclined his head. “Sort of. Only I was never very politically minded. I didn’t give much of a crap one way or another. I was antiwar, I guess, but…mostly, I just liked to smoke weed and listen to tunes.” 

John couldn’t help but laugh in surprise. The preppy, buttoned-up Richard Standish? He of the many cashmere designer scarves and foreign cars? *That* Richard Standish? 

“I know,” he added with a wry smirk. “I don’t exactly look it *now*, but when I was seventeen…yeah, raised all sorts of hell. Drove my parents and teachers nuts.” He craned his neck to regard John. “In fact, I used to live in your old neighborhood. Right on the same street, I think.” 

‘Damn, the revelations keep coming tonight.’ “You’re kidding? Kenny’s Cove Road?”

“Where there was no cove,” Rich said, shaking his head.

“And who the fuck was Kenny?” 

He and Mr. Standish shared a laugh, which John abruptly halted upon remembering where he was and what his father had done. *His* father. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward and grasped Claire’s inert, but warm, hand again, tracing the lines in her palm with his thumb. He did not deserve one moment of enjoyment. Not now, not ever.

“You definitely don’t live there now,” John continued in a subdued tone. Staring at his princess’ elegant fingers. Some of her nails had been broken in the…*accident*. She’d hate that. 

Richard leaned back in his chair. “No. When I was a kid coming up, I always told myself I’d have the biggest house in Shermer one day, someplace above Jersey.” Jersey Street was the road just below Sycamore, where the Standishes lived. “But, honestly, I wasn’t super determined or anything. It was just vague bullshit I’d say to my friends when we were high.” 

The corners of John’s lips twitched. 

“The fact is,” Rich said, sighing. “I happened to be selling the right product at the right time. I had this little underground newspaper. Mostly dumb crap. My friends and I ran it. Then, one day, one of ‘em brought his girlfriend to read it, and she dug it. She showed *her* girlfriends, and they dug it. So I figured, maybe other people will dig it, too.” He shrugged, reached for the cup, seemed to remember he threw it out, then let his hand fall back in his lap. “They did. It was the early sixties. US involvement in ‘Nam was heating up. People needed a distraction. The paper provided it. Eventually, we got enough to buy our own space. Started selling other shit. Branched out. You know the drill.” 

John nodded. So *that* was how Rich had become the undisputed King of Chicago. “What was the newspaper?”

“You ever hear of ‘Beat City Squib’?” 

Bender choked on his drink. “*You* founded ‘Beat City Squib’? Damn, I used to stay up late to read that shit in bed with a flashlight.”

Rich laughed quietly. “You’re welcome for the memories.” Then, he continued his earlier line of discussion as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “But I was still that same long-haired, concert tee-wearing pothead I always was.” Standing, he rounded Claire’s bed and gently brushed a lock of ginger hair off her forehead. “When I saw you with Claire that day after detention, eh, first I wondered ‘Who’s that kid with my daughter?’” 

Bender chuckled and rubbed Claire’s hand between both of his. “Can’t blame you there.” They hadn’t exactly been *subtle* that day. She’d given him her earring, then let him kiss her right in front of her dad’s BMW. 

“Second,” he resumed. “I thought ‘She found a young punk just like her old man.’” 

John conceded that. He’d certainly been a young punk. 

“When she brought you home,” Mr. Standish continued, chortling a little. “I was pretty much meeting myself at that age. Wasn’t sure if it would go anywhere.” Across Claire’s still, evenly breathing form, Richard regarded him. “Relieved it did. You changed her, you know.”

Saying nothing, Bender focused his unseeing stare on Claire’s bare ring finger. 

“Much as I love my daughter, and I do, more than anything—“ Rich rounded the bed again and came to sit beside him once more. “—for a few years there, I worried that she was going to turn out like, well, like my wife. All she seemed to care about was shopping and boys and being popular. I saw her start to change…after she met you. She was fun again. She didn’t spend hours in front of a mirror to go to the mall. Hell, she even skipped Homecoming that year. Used to be that Homecoming Queen was her goal.”

Homecoming, senior year. He didn’t even have to *ask*; *she* was the one who suggested they skip it and go to the arcade instead. Then, they went to a showing of “Nightmare on Elm Street”. He had quite enjoyed her burrowing into his side during the movie, burying her head in his neck when she was afraid. By that point he was privy to the fact that she’d always loved horror movies, and war movies—she had two copies of “Halloween” in her room, one on VHS and one on Beta—so she probably hadn’t been that freaked. Just wanted to be close, to make him think that he was protecting her from the bad, bad knife-hand man. 

John half-smiled in recollection. 

“So, why would I lose my cool? I *liked* that she seemed to care about someone other than herself for a change. And that she gave you a place to stay…when you didn’t have one.” In unison, he and Mr. Standish winced, though probably for very different reasons. John, for instance, was recalling that one time Rich found them sleeping together. But at least it wasn’t *sleeping together*. “My old man was a jerk, too. WWII vet. It changed him, and not for the better. He never hit me, but he found ways to hurt all the same.”

‘More revelations.’ It was almost eerie how alike he and Claire’s father were, underneath it all. 

“Don’t go blamin’ yourself, kid,” Richard added, rising to his feet again. “It’s not your fault that you hit the genetic un-lottery where your dad is concerned.” 

No. But it was his fault that he had failed to protect her from the piece of shit. 

Glancing at his absurdly expensive watch, Rich grabbed his blue sport coat and shrugged it on. “I’ve got work in the morning, I can’t not go again. You’ll be here?”

John’s head bobbed. He wasn’t fucking going anywhere. 

Richard nodded once. “Good. Call me the moment there’s any change.” Upon rounding the corner out into the hall, John heard him snapping orders to a group of nurses. “This man here is my daughter’s fiancé. He is not to be removed from her bedside, is that clear?”

“Understood, sir.” 

“He has special permission from now on, Mr. Standish.”

“We can set up an extra bed.”

John was almost amused at how blatantly ingratiating the nurses were. ‘Money really does talk.’ 

“Good,” he said again. After nodding at him through the ICU room’s window, John listened to him make his way down the corridor until the echo of his footfalls disappeared.  
**

Quietly, Brian observed Laura Bender. John’s *mother*. 

It was his first time meeting her face to face, and he couldn’t stop staring. Though John was purported to favor his father, at least in looks, there was definitely something of him in Laura. Whether it be around the eyes or cheeks or whatever feature, or simply her aura, everything about the woman screamed “Bender” to him. 

That morning at Housely was, er, weird. Awkward. Allison and Andy were staying in the apartment to care for Danielle, and Laura had shown up this morning looking, as Ally stated, tired and wan and jet-lagged. “Not that I particularly care.” Brian recalled watching from the waiting area as both Benders spoke in not-whispers just outside Claire’s room, John appearing worn and haggard and exasperated while his mother was sad but understanding. She’d gotten on the first flight out of Knoxville as soon as John had called her with the news of what happened to Claire—a full day after she’d been in the hospital already—even though Bender asked her to stay put. 

“Ma, I told you to stay there,” Bender had said, anxiously raking his hair away from his face. 

Laura twittered in her white Keds and looped her own wild blonde hair behind her ear. “I—I know, Johnny, but I couldn’t just stay away—“ 

“I really wish you would have,” John sighed, His friend sounded more broken and beaten than Brian had ever heard him—moreso than when Danielle got sick and he and Claire had to stay up all night to care for her. Moreso than when Claire went into labor early and he was worried sick. Moreso than when Ty Carter, his oldest friend, had crashed his Harley into a Dumpster and required twenty-five stitches in his head. 

The burnout was an absolute shell of his usual self. A living ghost haunting the trauma ward. 

“Ma,” he continued, leaning wearily against the windowed wall behind him, the one that peered into Claire’s room. As if he didn’t possess the energy to stand up on his own. “I am…trying not to place blame on anyone but the asshole who did this. But…I’m only fucking human, and every time I look at you, I want to punch something.”

Laura lowered her head and gazed down at her feet. “I—I didn’t think he would do this…” 

“And yet, he did,” John scoffed. “And now Claire’s in the hospital and unconscious because of it. I failed to protect her from the shithead who targeted her because he thinks I ‘stole you away’. And I’m fucking angry and terrified and… Ma, please. Just…go for now.”

Mrs. Bender’s heartbroken face made Brian want to cry. Though he was breathing fire, too, he couldn’t help but feel for the woman. She couldn’t have known this would happen.

No one had. No one could’ve predicted this. 

Laura nodded, scribbled something on a pad of paper, and pushed the ripped piece into John’s hand. “Where I’m staying and the number for the room…if you wanna talk.”

When she turned and left with one backwards glance at all of them gathered in the waiting area, John straightened and paced back inside Claire’s room.

Early this morning, she had shown up at Housely wanting to see the baby and offering to help. A muscle twitched in Andy’s cheek, but he allowed her to enter. 

Now, she’d been here for over half the day, bathing and feeding and changing Danielle and cleaning up where she saw fit. Brian couldn’t imagine that the woman hadn’t yet felt the scorn lingering in the air like a physical presence, heard the pointed barbs Allison, Andy, and Jackie threw her way. He knew that’d be all *he* would be thinking about. But if Laura perceived this reaction to her presence, she did not acknowledge it. 

As for him and Jackie, they were technically staying at the Days Inn near the airport, but they’d spent more time here at Housely than in their shabby, generic hotel room. It was getting quite crowded in here, what with the two of them plus Eleanor Reynolds and Ally and Andy. Stubbie was also here as of the moment after stopping by the hospital—still no news, but no news was good news, right?—to see Claire and spend some time with Bender, who’d kept a constant vigil at her bedside. He hadn’t gone home once. 

Yesterday, Andy brought him extra clothes to wear. John had been donning the same jeans and t-shirt for three days. 

When Laura carried a squirming Danielle into the living room post-bath, Allison irately climbed off the sofa and took the baby from her with a stony expression. Without a word, she marched into the kitchen to retrieve a bottle.

Uncomfortable, Brian twitched where he sat next to Jackie. He’d never done well when there was palpable animosity in the air, whether aimed at him or not. It just made him feel awkward as hell. Not to mention horrible for the person said animosity was aimed at, even if they deserved it. Brian was still considering whether or not Laura deserved it. 

Clearing his throat, Brian scooted closer to his girlfriend to whisper in her ear. “M—maybe we can let up on all this…anger? At Bender’s mom, I mean.”

Jackie was not moved. Arms folded over her chest, she glared at him through her thick-frame glasses. “*Her* husband did this. All in a twisted way to get to her. She *knew* being here would be dangerous for all of them, and she stayed anyway.” She harrumphed. “In my opinion, everyone hasn’t been pissed *enough*.” 

Brian sighed and gazed across the room. Laura stood in a corner, biting her lip, fiddling with her hands. She murmured something, turned around, and walked down the hall to the bedrooms. 

Allison returned with Danielle in her arms, sucking on the rubber nipple of a plastic bottle. “This is the last of Claire’s breastmilk. Soon, we’ll only have formula to rely on.”

On the edge of the couch, Andy groaned. “She puts up a fight with the formula.”

The Basketcase nodded. “I know. We’ll just have to…have to try, I guess.”

Huffing, Jackie pushed herself off the green suede sofa and paced to and fro. “There has to be *something* else we can do! Claire’s lying there, John’s a wreck, her mother’s acting like this is a plot point in a soap opera she’s filming, and her brother’s gone to pieces. Not to mention we’re housing the *reason* Claire is in the hospital in the first place.”

Brian jerked involuntarily. 

Stubbie, his arm around Eleanor’s shoulders—‘Guess they aren’t hiding it anymore’—looked up at Jackie through his lashes. “I thought it was that jackass, Mr. Bender.”

Jackie scoffed. “Yeah, to get at John. Because he blames him for his wife leaving.”

Eleanor dug her hands through her blonde mane. “I just wish this wasn’t happening. Poor Claire. How can someone *be* that evil? To go after a helpless woman?”

Allison sneered. “There are some sick people in the world. He’s one of them. That time he confronted us in the park…I swear, there was no spark in his eyes. It was like his soul died a long time ago.”

Andy reached forward and squeezed his wife’s hand. “He won’t get away with it. Not with Bender and Richard Standish on his ass. Dude’s got the whole Chicago Police Department on him.”

Brian glanced down the line at Andy. “Yo—your mom’s Claire’s RN on duty, right? Did, um, she say anything ab—about her condition to you?”

But the Sport just shook his head. “She had nothing to tell me. Other than her chart is ‘stable’, so I guess that’s good.” 

Brian buried his face in his hands. He knew he had to get started on his final paper for his Anatomy III class and the exams for the rest—he was supposed to send the completed Scantrons in to his professors by mail—but he didn’t have the wherewithal to pick up a pencil. 

‘Poor Claire. Poor John.’  
**  
That night, John drifted off again. And dreamed. 

It was more a recollection, really. And, for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t some horrible real-life nightmare his father had hand-delivered to him.

No, instead, he dreamt about Homecoming. As though Rich bringing just that night up had influenced his subconscious. 

Shermer was notorious for having their Homecoming pretty late in contrast to the other school districts nearby, like Northbrook or South Glen South or Shermer High’s number one adversary, New Trier. This was particularly true for the 1984-85 school year. The Homecoming game and dance, usually slated for the end of October, was moved all the way to the end of November due to a threat Rooney had anonymously received of gang violence on the football field occurring during the game. The Bloods and Crips were supposed to have a rumble or something—the missive threatened a bomb inside the pigskin, which no one took seriously—but, after parental complaints, Rooney’s hands were tied and he postponed the original game. The dance was moved from the gym to a “secure location”, aka the Shermer Holiday Inn. 

John was very much *not* looking forward to this. He knew Claire was psyched, she was in the running for Homecoming Queen, so he’d put up with all the claptrap—dressing up and riding to the hotel in a limo and posing for lameass photos. He had no idea what he was even going to *wear*. Like an idiot, he’d used the cash now burning a hole in his pocket from his new job to splurge on weed and a better fake ID. He hadn’t even considered setting aside some of that green for “dress clothes”. The nearest stuff he had was a button-down that had once been white but was now grayish and a pair of black jeans. 

In his defense, he never thought he’d be seeing anyone who actually wanted to attend a high school dance. 

Shit, he never thought he’d be *seeing* anyone, period. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. Before Claire, the closest he’d ever approached “boyfriend territory” was with Holly Grier. And “seeing” in that context meant “hooking up with more than three times”. He put the kibosh on all that when it became obvious Holly wanted more than he was willing to offer. 

With Claire, he was more than willing. He was doing it, the boyfriend thing. He’d even bought her a fucking corsage like a doofus. At least, he thought it was a corsage. Could’ve been a loofa. 

But that night, when he arrived at the Standish estate to pick her up, he was surprised. First of all, he wasn’t greeted by the Standishes’ not-so-friendly maid, Greta and her amazing motionless hair. Claire herself stood at the door and, second surprising aspect of the night, she wasn’t wearing some pink frou-frou gown as he would’ve expected. Tonight, she was clad simply in a light green off-shoulder sweatshirt and a pair of acid wash jeans, her hair fastened in a careless scrunchie. 

John was confused. “Hey, Princess, I’m no sergeant of the Fashion Police, but I don’t think that’s Homecoming-acceptable attire.” 

‘Pretty sure that committee she heads frowns on jeans,’ he considered, though he was wearing jeans. They were black, they were black!

Claire leaned against the doorjamb. “You mind if we skip it tonight?”

Mind? *Mind*? He was fucking thrilled. But cautiously so. Why would Claire Standish, frontrunner for Homecoming Queen, want to skip Homecoming? “Fuck no, I don’t *mind*. But…why?”

Cherry’s shoulders bobbed. “I’m not in the mood to dress up and…be Claire Standish tonight. Just the idea is exhausting me. Can we, I don’t know, do something else instead?”

“What’d you have in mind?”

It was Claire who suggested the arcade, the one in the Shermer Hills Mall. Like Kenny’s Cove Road, no one had any idea why the place was called Shermer Hills; there were no hills in Shermer. The suburb was as flat as Kansas. Still, the mall itself was nice—it had to be, located smack dab in the middle of Richieville—with an open floorplan, lots of those high-end stores Claire loved and John wouldn’t be able to afford in a million years, a movie theatre, an indoor ice skating rink, a stocked cafeteria, and a fountain shaped like a four-leaf clover. 

At the arcade on the second floor, Claire instantly dashed for the unoccupied air hockey table. She dug air hockey; it was the one game she could beat her brother in. Smiling a bit, John indulged her, and even said nothing when she celebrated kicking his ass by shaking her butt in his face. Not that he would’ve anyway. 

He beat her in foosball, though, and tied with her in skeeball. They spent the next few hours dashing around the arcade, spending way too many tokens on games like Pac-Man, Mario, Mortal Kombat, Dig Dug, Kirby, and Donkey Kong. John was the *master* at Donkey Kong. 

Later, after their tokens were all gone and their tickets cashed in—he won her a giant pink alligator that Claire planned to call Alfred—they decided to stop in for a showing of “Nightmare on Elm Street”. With their popcorn and insanely large drinks, they claimed seats in the back, though Claire actually wanted to *watch* the movie, alas. John amused himself by chucking popcorn at other couples who definitely did not. 

“You’re a jackass,” she giggled beside him after some guy a row ahead of them threatened to remove John’s head from his body. 

“You love it,” he replied automatically, grinning. She would never admit out loud that his antics amused her as well but he for sure knew they did. The riskier the endeavor, the more turned on she was. John knew this from experience.

They’d only been sleeping together for a few months, but his princess proved to be quite the apt pupil. Willing and eager to learn. And learn some more.

John shifted in the sticky theatre seat. He had to stop thinking this way or he was going to have to make good use of the little boys’ room.

Once the movie was in full swing, Claire made a show of jumping and cringing whenever Freddy did something crazy and/or gross. John wasn’t complaining. Claire loved horror movies, that was a fact. She had quite the discerning taste, too. She revered classics like “Nosferatu” and newer fare such as “The Hills Have Eyes” and “The Exorcist” but wouldn’t tolerate schlock. “Friday the 13th”? Great! “Don’t Go In the Woods”? Unintentionally hilarious. 

She was not afraid; Claire did not scare so easily. He wasn’t fooling himself. But he had absolutely no problem at all with her cuddling up to him and burying her face in his chest. The warmth of her skin and the pleasant scent of her strawberry shampoo made having to sit in spilled soda for two hours worth it. 

On the ride home in her father’s BMW—which she let him drive, score!—he glanced at her during pauses at stoplights and before turning corners. She was smiling softly, serenely, beautifully bare-faced and dressed down, the headlights from passing cars briefly illuminating her skin. When she met his gaze, she beamed brightly and squeezed the hand resting on her thigh. 

Damn but he was a lucky bastard. How the hell *had* he gotten so lucky? Good things did not happen to John Bender. And yet, here was the best “good thing” he’d ever experienced right beside him. 

John cleared his throat and shook the cobwebs from his brain before they became too mushy and stupid. Besides, he had to concentrate on the road. “You sure you’re okay with missing Homecoming, Sweets?”

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Claire shrug. “I was the one who suggested it, remember?”

“Well, yeah, but…” He hoped she hadn’t skipped out on something she was really looking forward to because of him. 

“John, really, it’s not that big a deal,” she said, words he never would’ve bet her using regarding Homecoming. “Let Megan or Sloane or, ugh, Michelle Manning win Queen.”

John smirked. There was no love lost between Claire and Michelle Manning—and never had been, according to her. Michelle, a fellow richie, was forever trying to one-up the Princess. If Claire got a new dress, Michelle had one specially imported from Milan. If Claire drove the Mercedes to school, Michelle arrived in a stretch limo. If Claire put up posters for Homecoming Queen, Michelle had an entire frigging election-style commercial made. 

The chick had even tried getting on his “good side” when he and Claire went public. He laughed and left her gawping where she’d cornered him in the locker room. She was *stunned* that a guy—let alone a lowly working class schlub like him—would turn away Michelle Manning. 

“She still with Stef McKee?” This was one thing about dating Claire that rubbed off on him—his sudden interest in the A-group gossip vine. 

Claire scoffed. “Yeah. Two horrid people being horrid together. It’s a match made in Hell.” 

John laughed. There was no love lost between her and McKee, either. Claire only tolerated his presence because his mom was in Nora Standish’s circle of sycophants. 

Not that *he* was a big fan of the richie fuck himself. 

“You know, she tried to go after Jake Ryan before Stef?” Claire snorted, rolling her eyes. “Samantha Baker put a stop to *that* nonsense right away. She’s gotten a lot more confident since she began dating Jake.” 

Bender carefully piloted the car onto Breedmore Street. A fucking just-off-the-line BMW, he was taking no chances with this baby. “Who can blame her? He’s dreamy, ain’t he?” John batted his eyelashes. 

Claire giggled and swatted his bicep. 

All the girls frigging loved Jake Ryan. To him, he was kinda bland, but whatever. Ryan was decent enough. Though another pretty boy richie, a dime a dozen in Shermer, he didn’t possess the jackassery of Hardy Jenns or the outright cruelty of Stef McKee. Dude was all right in Bender’s book. As long as he kept his hands off Claire. He had his *own* redhead. 

Pulling the car onto Sycamore and then in the Standishes’ enormous circular driveway, John was about to walk Claire to her door when she pivoted for the trellis beneath her bedroom window instead. On the bottom rung, she glanced over her shoulder to regard him with a clear promise in her eyes. “Coming?” 

Damn straight he was. 

John was glad he did not have to go home tonight. Early this morning, his old man had dragged him out of bed, pissed off about…something or other. Whatever it was, it’d left him with a lovely new scar on his knee after his douche of a father threw him down the stairs. He was fortunate the scar was the *only* wound he’d gotten from that altercation and not a broken neck, to boot. 

As they piled into her bedroom, kissed, and began to undress each other, fumbling and laughing all the while, John concurred to himself that this was *definitely* more preferable.  
**  
Clawing to the surface was akin to a snowy, mountaintop battle or skirmish in one of the war movies she adored. Like “Castle Keep”. Or the recently released “Winter War”. 

Everything around her was hazy, as if cloaked by a wall of falling snowflakes. She had to trudge and climb through the debris, the ice, the wet. The thick, cumbersome field of snow pushed at her feet, making every movement uncomfortable, if not downright painful. This snowy battle—it was like one step forward, two steps back. Every. Time. 

The more she walked, the more the sky around her seemed to lighten. The haze to lessen. Suddenly, she could see again, and the trail she trod was no longer congested with pine tree after pine tree. The dropping of bombs, the clamor of war, was behind her. All was quiet…except for the muffled echo of faraway voices. Whispering voices. 

Pushing her snow goggles off her face, Claire set her jaw and forged an advance, up the path, past the gradually disappearing trees. Ahead shown the first light she’d glimpsed in what felt like eons. Claire ambled toward it, arms outstretched…

…and her eyelids fluttered open. Feeling started to return to her limbs, and she experimentally tapped one finger against something soft and scratchy. Nearby, her ears discerned the echo of steady beeping. Her nose inhaled a strong antiseptic smell. Her tongue felt heavy and coated in her mouth. 

Grimacing, Claire slowly craned her head to the right. And smiled painfully at the silhouette of John slumped in a rather uncomfortable-looking chair, arms crossed over his chest, hair in his face. His clothes were disheveled, like he’d been wearing them for some time, and his legs were splayed out before him. 

He never looked more *boyish* than he did when he was sleeping. Claire had always thought so. 

Emitting a sort of strained, croaking sigh underneath her breath, Claire tried to coerce her thick tongue to form his name. Her throat was so dry, it *ached*. She felt worse than she had when she was six and had her tonsils taken out. And at least then there was ice cream. 

She was finding that her throat wasn’t the only part of her that hurt, either. Her head throbbed, pulsating at the temples and back with bell-like rhythm. One of her legs felt heavy and cumbersome, like it was encased in cement. Even her *face* hurt, as though it was covered in cat scratches. 

Beside her, John continued to snore away. Lips quirking involuntarily, despite the pain the minute movement caused, Claire bade her right arm reach out until her hand brushed his knee, once more choking on his name. 

This caused John’s eyes to flutter open, a flicker of confusion on his face that abruptly melted when he realized her own eyes were open, as well. 

“Claire!” he exclaimed, exhaling deeply and leaning over to kiss her. When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “Thank God. How are you feeling?”

Wincing, one of Claire’s hands rose to massage her temple. “My head hurts…”

He nodded, practically jumped out of his chair, and fumbled for the door…to wherever she was. Claire almost laughed observing this less than graceful maneuver. “Hey!” he yelled, sticking his head through the doorjamb. “Sh—she’s awake! Please. Help.”

A minute later, a woman she instantly recognized as Andy’s mom walked toward her bed, dragging behind her a blinking machine on a cart. She was dressed in her uniform of yellow scrubs and a stethoscope with a little stuffed unicorn attached to it. 

Smiling brightly, Mrs. Clark bent down and wound a thick white band around her upper arm. “Hello! We were worried about you!”

Mrs. Clark pressed a few buttons on the machine, and the band began to tighten. Again, Claire winced as it pinched her sensitive skin. “H—hi, Mrs. Clark…” 

Carol Clark read the results of the pressure band around her arm, jotted them down, and shoved a thermometer in her mouth. That done, the woman nodded, apparently satisfied, and put the device away. “Now. On a scale of 1-10, 10 being the strongest, how bad is your pain level?” 

To her right, John twittered from foot to foot, his hands wringing, as though he yearned to do *something* but didn’t know what. 

“About an 8?” Claire rasped. Above the scratchy blankets, her fingers flexed and unflexed. 

Mrs. Clark reached inside a pocket of her scrubs and pulled out a thin needle. “Okay, we’ll take care of that.” The contents of the needle were injected into an IV she just noticed was embedded in the skin of her hand. “Morphine. You should feel better in a minute. We’re all so glad you’re okay, Claire!”

Claire’s answering smile was shaky and a bit perplexed. 

When she left, John lowered himself to his knees and took her hand in his. “Feel better?”

She nodded, then gazed at her surroundings. There were lots of machines blinking and beeping around her. The floor was a tacky linoleum. The antiseptic stench was strong. She could only be in one place. Still, inanely, she asked, “Where am I?”

The hand wrapped around hers tightened. “You’re in a hospital.” 

Claire tried to sit up a bit and a bolt of pain promptly climbed up her spine. “Why? What happened?”

She watched as John’s eyes closed. “You don’t remember?”

She thought back. The last thing she recalled was…leaving the yoga studio? And then she ducked into the shop next door... Then, she was on the sidewalk, there was a scream, and she saw…

Claire’s eyes widened. She only had one thought in that moment. “Oh, my God. Danielle! Wh—where’s Danielle?!”

John smiled a bit and cupped her cheek. “She’s fine. She was with Allison, remember?”

There was a sigh as she settled back amongst the pillows. “Where is she now?”

“The apartment,” he supplied. “She and Sporto are watching her.” 

Claire nodded and glanced down her aching body to the thick blue cast encircling her left leg. So *that* was why her lower body felt weighted down. “My leg…”

John exhaled and squeezed her hand tighter. “I know. It’ll be okay, it’ll heal.”

“Is it shattered?”

He shook his head, a relieved light in his eyes. “No, no. It’s, um, just broken in a few places. By some fucking miracle.” This last he added under his breath. 

The lightning pain in her extremities had eased, but the pounding migraine hadn’t much lessened. John inched two Tylenol out of a bottle a nurse had left and passed them to her. She downed the pills with a shaky hand and a cup of water, which she finished without stopping for breath. Her throat was *really* dry. He refilled the plastic cup as soon as she let it down. 

“Did…” she began, then cringed again when she twisted her injured leg the wrong way. “Did they catch who did this?”

John sighed and shook his head. “Not yet. But they *will*,” he added with emphasis, his brows coming down to form an angry V. “Your old man’s got the whole Chicago PD on this case. As well as the precincts in Shermer, Northbrook, and Winnetka.” 

Claire’s lips flickered. Her father *would* have the entire city looking for the person responsible.

“You should call him,” he continued, gesturing to the white landline on the bedside table. “Your dad. He’s been here whenever he can be, but he still had to work…” 

Made sense. A conglomerate couldn’t run itself. John handed her the set, and she dialed her parents’ familiar number. 

“Hi, Daddy…no, I’m fine. What? Yes, he’s here, I promise. No, no, it’s late, isn’t it? Come by in the morning. Okay, I’ll see you then… Yes, I *promise* I’m okay. What? Do I have to?” Beside her, John chuckled as her mother’s overdramatic voice shrieked and cried through the receiver. “Hello, Mother. No, I’m fine. *Please* don’t. I—“ Claire pulled the phone away from her ear whilst Nora Standish continued to sob like she was gunning for a Daytime Emmy. “Yes, I will see you tomorrow. Goodbye, Mother.”

When Claire hung up the phone and passed it back to John, his shoulders continued to shake with laughter. “And the Oscar goes to…” 

She snorted and blew a strand of red hair out of her face. “Mother at her finest Faye Dunaway.” Blinking, she glanced down at the IV needle in her hand. Around its entry point were lacerations marked with bruises and a few angry red cuts. She wasn’t sure if they were from previous attempts to insert the IV or the crash itself. “How long was I…out?”

John exhaled slowly and leaned forward to rest his elbows on her mattress. “Over four days.” A humorless laugh. “Longest of my fucking life.” She reached up to cup his unshaven cheek, feeling the bristles of a beard beginning to snap under her fingers. John’s own hand followed, resting atop hers for a few seconds, before lowering it and bringing her knuckles to his lips. “These past few days, I’ve been more scared than I ever was. And I’ve been plenty frigging scared in the past.” 

Claire smiled and rested her head against their clasped hands. When she looked up, she saw tears shining in his eyes, all of which he viciously wiped away with his unoccupied arm. “John Bender, are those tears I see?”

Again, he chuckled darkly while wiping his eyes with the flat of his hand. “You bet your ass, Princess.” 

Furrowing her brow, Claire understood that he’d been *truly* worried. John wasn’t one to display much emotion—outside of the increasingly infrequent bouts of ire and, when they were alone, contentment. But John was not easily vexed. Having endured eighteen years of having to be on his toes at all times, he’d taken the philosophy of “Don’t sweat the small stuff” once he moved out. It took *a lot* to get him this worked up. 

Her hand slid to push a strand of hair behind his ear. “Hey. I’m okay now.” 

“Thank *God*,” he said again, briefly staring up at the ceiling. 

She looked down her body at her casted leg once more, giving her toes an experimental wiggle. She could move them, at least. “So…they know who did this?”

“You don’t know? You didn’t see?”

Claire briefly shut her eyes. In her mind’s eye, all she could perceive was a dusty gray car barreling toward her, the silver ram Dodge symbol gleaming atop a slightly rusted grille. She couldn’t recall glimpsing into the driver’s seat before disaster struck. “I don’t think so? I just remember that it was a Dodge.” Claire grimaced in a perfectly Claire-like mannerism. “Ugh. What an ugly car that was. Like I’d be taken out by a Dodge.”

This time, John’s laughter sounded more genuine. “That’s my girl.”

Her smile brightened for a second before dimming again. “Who was it? I assume they know if they’re hunting him.”

John’s amused expression dropped. Raking a hand through his hair, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against their clasped hands. “Claire, it was my father.”

Claire blinked. Once. Twice. She probably should have guessed that, but the knowledge still came as a bit of a shock to her. “Your father?”

He nodded. “After…after they pulled you out, you know, of the wreckage, I saw that it was a company car. Had the address on it of the same place the sonofabitch works.”

“Maybe it was someone else who works there?”

John shook his head. “I also saw…hanging from the rearview mirror was an ornament. A little guitar. He’s had that thing since before I was born. Always called it his ‘lucky charm’.” He tittered gravely beneath his breath. “It was definitely him. And I will fucking *kill* him. I know I’ve said that in the past, but I absolutely mean it this time.”

Claire was still absorbing the understanding that this had been no accident. Very likely, Mr. Bender had targeted her on purpose. It was only John’s proclamation that shook her out of it. “John, no! Don’t do anything foolish, please?”

In reply, John just huffed, dropped her hand, and crossed his arms obdurately. She knew that face. That was his Determined Face. Or his Stubborn As A Mule Face. It was the same façade he’d worn when Vernon was dispelling all those Saturdays the day she’d first met him. 

“John, *please*,” she entreated, craning her head to gaze into his face. “Don’t do anything to take yourself away from us. Danielle needs her father…and I need *you*.” 

Although, with the representation Claire’s dad would no doubt hire, her mulish Criminal would very likely not have to serve any time even if he *did* go after his father himself. But that reputation would follow him everywhere, wouldn’t it? Besides, she definitely didn’t want to risk him getting hurt or worse. 

Sighing, he uncrossed his arms and reclaimed her hand, entwining the fingers with his. “Fine. But when he *is* caught, I’m gonna have a little chat with Dear Ole Dad. A long overdue one.”

That’d be perfectly fine with her. “Please. *Chat* away.” 

He smirked and pressed another kiss to her fingers. “You know…when you were...under…I, um, made a deal with the Big Guy. Or Girl.”

Claire cocked her head to the side. John was not a particularly religious person, or even a spiritual person. She didn’t know if he believed in God, or any deity, at all half the time. “Really? What’d you say?”

He pursed his lips and stared unseeingly at their combined hands. “I, um, promised Him that I’d do whatever He wanted. I’d go to church every Sunday—even though I haven’t been back there since I was eleven—and I’d stop drinking and smoking *completely*. I’d work more hours…” Here, he glanced up and met her eyes. “I’d tell you I love you every day. Multiple times a day. Until you get embarrassed of me.” Claire laughed, and this time, his gaze dropped to his lap. “I’d even…go…if need be…” 

That had her abruptly stop giggling. Forehead wrinkling, she ticked his chin up with an index finger. “Why would you need to go?”

John shrugged, but he was still not meeting her eyes. He’d obviously considered this over the past few days, and the look on his face scared her. “Claire, he did this because of *me*. Because, in his warped mind, I’m responsible for Ma leaving him. He targeted you to get to *me*. And it fucking worked! Shit, if Dani had been with you, he wouldn’t have thought twice about…”

His breath hitched before he could get the words out of his mouth. Alarmed, Claire sat up straighter and ticked his chin up again, forcing him to meet her stare. “John. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

Moisture reflected plainly in his gaze when he looked at her. “Wasn’t it?”

“No!” she negated with a vehement shake of the head. “John. It’s like you said to Laura, you can’t help that your father’s fucking crazy.”

He huffed a laugh but said nothing.

Claire continued. “Everything’s been better because of you. My life now has meaning…other than clothes and makeup, because of you. I’m a mother because of *you*.” Scooching closer, suppressing a wince as pain shot up her back, she palmed both sides of his face and tried to inject as much earnestness in her words as possible. Because she meant them. “This wasn’t your fault, only Jake Bender’s. Please. Don’t take yourself away…”

The very notion made her feel ill and panicked. 

There was a beat, a beat that seemed, to Claire, to last a whole lifetime, then his face relaxed in a small smile. “I doubt I could even if you asked me to.”

Expelling a breath of release, she replied, “Well, I’ll never do that, so you don’t have to worry.”

The smile transformed into a more engulfing beam, lighting his complexion from the inside out, and he gathered her in a desperate embrace. Claire rested her head on his shoulder, ignoring the bolts of pain in her back. She’d deal for now.

“You should rest,” he muttered when they pulled apart, nodding to her rumpled sheets. “It’s really early in the morning, and you’ve had a helluva time.”

Claire gnawed on her lower lip. “It’s…okay if I sleep? Like, I won’t fall back under or anything?”

John was shaking his head before she finished her question. “The doctor said once you’re up, you’re up. You don’t have any brain abnormalities to worry about. They did tests.”

“They did?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed with a cringe. “CAT scans and MRIs and shit.”

Nodding, she patted the space beside her. “Lay down with me?”

He gazed at the IV and heart monitor plugged into her person. “I don’t wanna pull anything out…”

“You won’t,” Claire said with the utmost confidence. “Please?”

She knew that he couldn’t resist her own pouty face. Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, he pulled his sneakers off and climbed under the sheets beside her. Claire lowered her back to the pillows, then turned over to rest her head on his chest. One arm came up to encircle her shoulder. 

“Good?” he breathed into her hair. 

“Mmhmm,” she murmured, closing her eyes. 

She felt him press a kiss to the top of her head as she drifted off. The last sound she heard was his shuttered inhalation of gratitude.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Nora's behavior may seem kind of cartoonish and out there, but she's a narcissist. A narcissist cares more about themselves than anyone else, and especially how they look to other people. Family tragedies are *catnip* for them. Muchausen by Proxy Syndrome is often perpetuated by a narcissist, with the end goal of getting sympathy and gifts.
> 
> Note 2: ICU rooms are generally nicer than the rest. When I was in one I had my own private bathroom, hi-def TV, and space to move around. Moving upstairs was a disappointment, to say the least.
> 
> Note 3: Richard Standish is a GOAT when it comes to business and he takes no bullshit. But, to his family, he's incredibly loyal. John's his grandkid's father, his daughter's intended. He's family, now.
> 
> Note 4: US Involvement in Vietnam began in 1955. "Beat City Squib" is a riff on "National Lampoon" referencing a song that plays in Ferris Bueller. 
> 
> Note 5: I imagine that, after what happened to Claire, her friends would be PISSED and looking for a scapegoat. And John would just be exhausted and angry.
> 
> Note 6: Ha, I got that little anecdote about the game being postponed from my own senior year. Our own Homecoming game was moved to a month later for just that reason--the Bloods and the Crips threatened gang violence during the game, including putting a bomb in the football. They obviously never showed, though a bunch of us were interviewed on the news that year, including myself all post-cheerleading, red and gross and covered in glitter. This is the link to read about it. https://archive.centraljersey.com/2004/10/28/gangs-dont-show-for-football-game/
> 
> Note 7: I miss malls. As a 90s kid, whenever I pass a dead mall, a part of my childhood dies.
> 
> Note 8: Y'all ever see "Don't Go in the Woods?" If you haven't, I suggest you look that shit up because it's hysterical. It's an old 70s horror movie--"horror movie"--made on a shoestring budget with, like, a Super 8 camera and horrendous acting and really obvious innuendo (in one scene, a couple getting it on in a trailer are called Cherry and Dick, seriously). My friend and I rented it one night in the late 90s during a sleepover. It was tradition for us to pick up some old horror from Blockbuster (lol) before a sleepover. We popped it in around 3 am and couldn't sleep because we were laughing too much. Someone gets decapitated to literal calliope music!
> 
> Note 9: South Glen South was the name of the school in "Never Been Kissed", which also takes place in the Chicago 'burbs.
> 
> Note 10: In real life, Michelle Manning was the co-producer of the movie (and fictional Prom Queen candidate, as per the opening). She was young then and had started out working with Francis Ford Coppola on "The Outsiders", according to that book I read. She was *also* a close friend of our dear Brat Pack, and was with them all that night that writer was there observing for the article that would define the Brat Pack. It was supposed to be an expose on Emilio Estevez, but, well, Estevez in all his naivete invited the writer out with him and his buddies to show off his "lighter, fun" side...and that happened. Everyone at Cafe Hollywood that night, I think, was Emilio, Judd, the perennially horny Rob Lowe, his on-off girlfriend, Melissa Gilbert from "Little House", Michelle Manning, and Judd's long-time girlfriend/manager at the time, Loree Rodkin (who has since gone on to design jewelry; she made the stuff Michelle Obama was wearing during Barack's inauguration. No, I don't know why they broke up. I'm guessing "Hollywood, man"). So I thought it'd be funny to make the fictionalized Michelle Claire's adversary.
> 
> Note 11: John suddenly turning into a gossip hound amuses me.
> 
> Note 12: I hope John and Jake never get their redheads confused.
> 
> Note 13: They always ask how bad your pain level is on a scale of 1-10. Every day, no matter how long you're there. Doctors' appointments, too. I'm always like "Shit, IDK. A 4.3?"


	42. Chapter 41: Vital Signs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol the one good thing about this insanity is that I have time to write now.

Chapter 41: Vital Signs

The Bull was pretty empty today. 

In fact, most of Logan Square was devoid of the usual window shoppers and tourists and bargain hunters. Chicago as a whole was kind of sleepy today, too. It was a Sunday, true, but this was *Chicago*. The Second City. The *other* city that never sleeps. It was a rare occurrence indeed not to be bumping into people on the sidewalks and to have almost an entire car on the Red Line to themselves. 

Really, the only other person in their car on the L that day was an old man who kept mumbling about “kids these days” and harrumphing whenever one of them spoke. Except for Ferris. Everyone liked Ferris. 

It was as if the whole of Chicago had declared a temporary holiday in Claire’s name. The fact that her dad was Richard Standish, too…this wasn’t *that* outlandish.

Andy and the rest of the guys—Brian, Stubbie, Ferris, Cameron, Ty, and Josh—had poured into Shermer General that morning intent on kidnapping Bender and taking him into the city. The guy had not been out of Claire’s room in a week, and he was even more attached to her side since she’d (thankfully!) woken. He was like Velcro, constantly wringing his hands and questioning the treatments Claire’s doctors suggested. 

Dude was worse than Mr. Standish. While this was awfully amusing to Andy, their purported “badass burnout” friend dancing around his intended like an excitable Chihuahua, it was driving said intended absolutely nuts. 

“Guys, *please* take him out of here. Just for a while,” Claire groaned on speakerphone. He stood over the device while Ally fed Danielle and snickered. “He has a raging case of cabin fever, and he’s making everyone insane. Dr. Schwartz looks like he’s about to throttle him.” 

Allison burst into laughter. “Please get some of this shit on video. It’d be great blackmail.”

Andy glanced at his wife and grinned. Over the phone, he could almost hear Claire rolling her eyes. “John’s just worried. It’s not his fault!”

Ally continued laughing. “Yeah but being the human equivalent of a distressed hummingbird is.” 

“Just…take him somewhere. Anywhere. Before all the nurses and doctors on this floor collectively hang themselves.”

Thus, Andy called up what had been collectively termed “the guys”, the strange little conglomeration of friends from all walks of life who just liked to shoot the shit. Together, the seven of them broke into Claire’s ICU room and all but dragged Bender kicking and screaming out of there. And his version of “kicking and screaming” was cursing, mostly. 

They took the Transit into Chicago, and then the L to Logan Square. It had required a good two hours here at the Bull and three and a half Heinekens to get the usually chilled Bender to finally loosen up and stop fretting, for fuck’s sake. 

He was now officially drunk, or at least on his way to drunk, and Andy planned to take him back to the apartment to sleep it off. Claire needed some alone time, and the guy had been wearing the same two pairs of disheveled jeans and t-shirts for seven days. 

He needed a shower and a shave, too. Dude was starting to resemble Robert Redford in “Jeremiah Johnson”. 

Now, after knocking back another few sips of beer, Bender glanced at the cheap watch he wore around his wrist. “Do…” *Hiccup*. He was more susceptible to alcohol now that he’d vastly cut down on his liquor intake. “Do y’think she’s okay?” *Hiccup*. “I should be gettin’ back…” 

Andy laughed. “Dude, she’s fine. And you’re coming back to the apartment with us.”

Bender tried to look irate, but in his state, it was more a cross between tired and constipated. “Fuck…you. I will not!”

Bri cautiously attempted to inject some logic into this conversation. “Um, John? I, uh, don’t think they’ll allow you b—back in the hosp…hospital. You know, if you’re drunk.”

“I ain’t durnk,” he slurred, nearly slipping off the barstool. “And…’sides, Rich prac-tic-a-lly runs that place. They wouldn’t…wouldn’t turn *me* away.” 

Josh leapt behind the bar to refill his beer stein, ignoring the tender’s aggravated glare. “Look who’s gone privileged! What’s next, Johnathon? A live-in maid? Designer duds? A solid gold toilet?”

Bender stared at him for way too long, then slowly flashed his middle finger. Josh cackled in response. 

John took another sip of his drink, lowered the bottle, and frowned. “Sh-eriously. Am I—“ *Hiccup*. “—becoming a dick?”

A few feet away, Ferris and Cameron were playing foosball. The air hockey machine was still kaput, much to Cameron’s chagrin. “What do you mean ‘becoming’?” Ferris cracked, sailing the miniature plastic ball past Cameron’s goal-keep. The little goalie's head had broken off and been replaced with a Lego man’s. 

“Damnit!” Cameron cursed, smacking the side of the wooden foosball table. “I really hate this game. *Why* hasn’t someone fixed the air hockey table yet?”

Ferris patted his shoulder wearing a mock-comforting pout. 

Bender turned from his seat to glare at Bueller. “You know what I mean, buttface.” 

Perched in front of the crane machine—with a heaping pile of neon-colored crap at his feet, all spoils of The Claw—Ty guffawed without twisting his head from his intended quarry. To Andy, from this vantage, it looked like a purple Spider-Man toy. “’Buttface.’ The drunker he gets, the stupider the insults.”

With nothing else nearby, Bender threw his jacket at him. Ty caught the garment without looking and shrugged it on. 

“Nah,” Stubbie answered from where he sat across the bar in the main viewing area. He was currently watching a professional bowling game on ESPN. Andy hadn’t even known there was such a thing as professional bowling. “*You* letting money corrupt you? I don’t think so, brah.” Stubbie, of course, being of the fifth richest family in Shermer. “Yeah! Knock down those pins! Seven-ten split, kiss my ass!”

There was not a sporting event that existed Stubbie wouldn’t watch and cheer ardently for. Bowling, golf, curling—Andy’s old friend even had a preferred hotdog eating champion. Ethan Wong. Little guy. Scarfed 68 hotdogs in a row. 

Andy cringed just thinking about it. Then felt un-American for doing so. 

“I dun’ wanna be a jerk,” Bender slurred some more. Again, he nearly slipped off the barstool. Andy had to reach out a hand to steady him, trying to rein in his laughter. The guy looked *wrecked*. 

“According to Claire, you’ve been pretty much the opposite of a jerk lately,” Andy said, sipping at his own stein. Still behind the bar, Josh acted the tender by refilling his up with his preferred Bud. “In fact, you’ve been an overprotective spazoid.” 

In the far corner of the bar, Ty cackled before The Claw as the crane captured his purple Spider-Man and sailed toward the dispenser. “Muahahaha! I got you, my pretty. Now for your little dog, too.” Ty’s sights set on a green dachshund plush. 

A few feet away, Cameron kicked the slightly unsteady foosball table after Ferris scored another goal. “Rigged! This thing is RIGGED!”

“Hey!” Brad the bartender, a big muscly guy cleaning a beer stein with a white piece of cloth, glared in Cameron’s direction. “No kicking the games or you’re payin’ for a new one, capisce?”

Frye ducked his head like a turtle. Ferris broke up laughing. 

Andy shook his head, breathed a chuckle, then knocked back his newly full stein. These were his friends and they were a bit mad; he wouldn’t have it any other way. It made him see red, and embarrassed him, how much time he’d spent in middle and high school trying to fit in and sucking up to the other Sports. ‘Not to mention what I did to poor Larry.’ In his old man’s name, to boot. Though he’d apologized to the kid the Monday after the Great Saturday Detention of ’84, Larry’s cringe when he approached him in the locker room after gym class still made him feel like a shit. 

At least Larry had forgiven him. And even offered to help him with his biology homework. 

Picking up their line of conversation, Bender scowled and waved his beer bottle around. The foam sloshed from the opening and spotted the otherwise pristine bartop, causing Brad to glower. “Not a spazoid, sportoid.” ‘Sportoid?’ Andy damn near did a spit-take. ‘He can’t hold his liquor anymore, can he?’ “’Scuse me fer bein’ concerned. Didn’t-a know that was a crime now.”

Brian plucked one slightly bushy red-blond eyebrow. “Um, John. I think you should gi—give it a rest with the beer.” 

“Shaddap, Brainiac. I ain’t so verra durnk. I mean, drunk. Ha!” 

This time, Andy failed to catch him when he slipped off his barstool for the third time, crumbling to a drunken, passed out heap at his feet. Sighing, the Sport bent down and hauled the passed out burnout to his knees. Though Bender was taller than him by a few inches, Andy would always be stronger. “Uh, guys? A little help?”

**  
At the same time, Allison was leading the girls in a round of “Free Claire”. It was the first time any of them had been able to visit since she awakened. Ally and Andy had been up to their elbows in Danielle’s spit up for the past few days, and they were both reluctant to leave her alone with Mrs. Bender. Jackie and Brian remained ensconced in their hotel room finishing up their finals to send back to Johns Hopkins. And the others were tied up with work. Sunday, blessedly, was the day of rest for all of them. 

The girls remained hidden behind the nurses’ desk, at Carol’s amused discretion, while the guys damn near tore John from Claire’s bedside and pushed him, cursing and mumbling, down the hall and out the door. When the coast was clear, Ally inclined her head, and they all traipsed into Claire’s room to surprise her. Claire was so happy, she squealed—though that may have had more to do with Danielle’s presence than anything else, but at least the Princess was smiling. 

“Hi, baby!” she’d trilled after Ally lifted Danielle out of her carrier and deposited her in Claire’s arms. “Mommy missed you! What…are you wearing?”

Allison guffawed whilst Megan, Jackie, and Sloane unloaded bags of junk food and cosmetic utensils. Ally had discovered a new hobby—dressing the baby up in ludicrous costumes. Today, inspired by Danielle’s red hair, the kid resembled Chucky from toe to tip. Striped sweater, overalls, red and white booties. Allison even bought her a tiny bean-stuffed butcher knife to carry around. Danielle had taken right to it. 

Sighing, Claire removed the booties, but there wasn’t much else she could do to de-Chuckify her baby. 

Near the TV, where Megan was setting up a VCR, she glanced up and shook her dark head. “Told you she’d recognize it right away.”

Allison shrugged. “I knew she would. That’s what makes it funny.”

Now, a few hours later, they’d watched “Some Like It Hot” on the hospital’s network and Jackie had popped “Say Anything” in the VCR. She and Megan lay sprawled on the floor digging into a bowl of popcorn while Allison lay in the window seat sipping from a glass of water, which she held by her toes. Just because she could. 

Sloane stood beside Claire’s bed doing her hair. She winced and groaned every time the brush snagged a snarl. “Ow! Sloane, you’re *brushing* my hair, not *climbing* it, right?”

“Sorry,” the brunette cringed. “You have Hospital Hair. My grandma had it when she was here. It’s when your hair gets so tangled from lying here, they practically need to shave it off.” 

Claire glowered. “No one is shaving my head. If anyone tries, I will bite their fingers.”

Allison grinned. “Rubbing off on you, am I? I’m so proud!”

Claire’s sneer quickly turned into another wince as the brush bristles got caught in another snag. 

Jackie, sitting up against the bed with her arms around her knees, scoffed at the TV. “Everyone says this movie is so romantic. If some guy stood outside my window with a boombox, I’d call the cops.”

“Especially if he was blasting Peter Gabriel,” Ally added, digging into her bag of chips. 

“I think it’s sweet,” Megan said, plainly swooning. “Ty would never think to do something like that. He’d be more likely to *burp* ‘In Your Eyes’ to me.”

They all laughed. Allison snickered, imagining this scenario. She could totally see it. He'd grown up with Bender, hadn't he? 

“Ferris would say ‘Screw the boombox’ and organize a parade,” Sloane supplied, now plaiting Claire’s hair in short pigtail braids. 

Allison could see *that*, too. 

“So, Claire,” Jackie began, glancing at the Princess over her shoulder. “What are you guys going to do about the wedding?”

“I can’t even believe he finally *asked*,” Megan said, rolling her eyes. “You guys had a baby! You think *that* would’ve been the catalyst.” 

Claire was staring down at her nails, half of which were broken, and cringing. “And have a shotgun wedding? No thank you.” Sighing, she gazed down at the glinting ring on her finger, one, Allison knew, she had put back on as soon as she was able. “I don’t know. All our plans have come to a halt, obviously. I would prefer to be as recovered as possible. I don’t really want to *limp* down the aisle.” 

“What did John say?” Allison asked, her mouth full of chips. 

Claire shrugged. “He’s fine with doing whatever. You know him. I could bring Father Bachman in here right now to marry us; it’d be cool with him. And then he’d have an excuse not to wear a suit.”

Sloane giggled. “He’d wear a hospital gown to match you.”

“Don’t remind me,” the redhead sneered, glancing down at the white cotton gown she’d been draped in for two days. This one was also backless and dotted with a pattern of blue raindrops. “I hate this thing. It’s itchy, and I can’t get out of bed without mooning everyone.” 

“Can’t your dad bring you something else?” Jackie asked, frowning.

“They say I need to be as unrestricted as possible for now. So it’s either this or I’m totally naked.”

Ally snort-laughed. “Bender would not mind that.”

Claire threw a scrunchie at her. “You’re disgusting.” 

A little while later, after Megan and Sloane had departed, Jackie and Allison remained behind to clean up. Danielle was sitting in her mother’s lap playing with her dragon. 

Claire’s head shot up as Ally was disposing of a Lays bag. “Oh! Have either of you guys seen Laura?”

As one, Allison and Jackie scowled. Ally, in particular, harbored the sudden urge to introduce this wastebasket to her steel-toed boot. “*Why*?!” 

Claire gazed down at her redheaded Chucky baby. “John mentioned that she flew in from Knoxville. I wanted to make sure she’s okay.”

Allison and Jackie traded glances, Brian’s girlfriend rolling her eyes behind her glasses, shaking her head, and returning to her errand. Ally turned back to Claire. “She’s fine. Why wouldn’t she be? *She* wasn’t the one who had a car ram into her.” 

The Princess pursed her lips. “Allison…”

“Well, what?!” she exclaimed. As much as Ally loved Claire, and she was damn relieved as *hell* that she’d woken up with only a broken leg and a few scratches, her friend’s refusal to see reality was aggravating. Even John was getting fed up with his mother lately. “Claire. She’s responsible for all this, you do realize that?” Allison waved her arm around in a half-circle, encompassing “all this”.

Claire shook her head. “That’s not true. Ally, it’s not *her* fault.”

Jackie had been tossing debris out in an increasingly agitated manner. At this, she halted completely, straightened, and folded her hands on her hips. “Oh, yes, it is!”

Claire’s gaze ticked to the other girl. “It was not! She didn’t know this would happen.”

Allison scoffed. “Maybe she didn’t drive the *car*, but she knew her husband was watching your family. I know you didn’t tell her about the scene in the park—for some crazy reason—but she was perfectly aware of Mr. Bender’s attempts to get in to see her. She’s been married to him for over twenty years. She knows what he’s like. She knew he wouldn’t just give up without a fight.” Gesturing Claire up and down, she added, “And this was the fight’s results.” 

Claire sighed and buried her face in her palms. In her lap, Danielle cooed, happily oblivious to the sudden tension around her. ‘Oh, to be a baby again!’ “Guys. What do you want me to do? Tell her to go fuck herself?”

Shrugging, Ally and Jackie agreed at the same time. “Sounds good to me.”

“I can’t do that!” Claire insisted; Allison sank down in the chair beside her bed with an exasperated huff. “This is a recipe for disaster. She’ll fall off the wagon—hell, she’s probably *this* close as it is!—and then I don’t know what’ll happen. How John will react. He might not say so but he’ll be *devastated*. And…and it would be my fault.” 

Jackie took off her glasses, cleaned them on the edge of her shirt, replaced them, and came to sit on the edge of the bed. “Claire, trying to protect your family, I think, is more important here. No one would blame you.”

“…I would blame me.” 

Allison and Jackie met eyes again. Wordlessly, Allison gazed down at her fingers.

**  
“Are you sure that’s right?”

…

“Don’t-cha have to work both limbs? Or is that something else TV lied about?”

…

“Jesus! Careful! You’re hurting her.”

…

Annie, Claire’s physical therapist, scowled behind her wire-rim glasses, hands flexing and unflexing at her sides. Claire had to stifle a grin. Aside from two days before, when she begged Andy to take him away, anywhere, John had been a near constant presence at her side, hovering around like a helicopter and judging everyone. Her new PT sessions were no exception. 

The day before, Claire had been declared fit to move from ICU to the rehabilitation wing on the other side of the hospital. She had her own private room, quite the rarity in this part of the building. The rehab wing was so small, according to Carol Clark, that it wasn’t odd to find up to four people crammed into one large square of a room, separated only by curtains. If one occupant flipped the lights on to watch TV, the entire room was suddenly flooded. That sounded like torture to her. 

Her dad stepped in to the rescue, of course. He made sure that she obtained the use of the rehab clinic director’s on-site apartment for the duration of her stay. Thus, she had her own queen size bed, full private bath, 35 inch television, video game console, mini-fridge, combination cassette/CD player, bookshelf, and armoire for her things. She would not be wanting here.

As her father said—“If my baby has to be in this place, she’s going to have the *best* room available!” 

That morning, over strawberries and cream French toast the *private chef* Richard had hired for her made (His daughter was *not* to be subjected to hospital food, thank you very much), she almost convinced herself that she was just on holiday. 

That all changed when her physical therapist came by and she realized that she actually had to work. 

While the queen size made it easier for John to stay over, it also meant that he…stayed over. Every directive from anyone, from her doctor to her PT, was questioned by him. He was worse than her father, who snapped orders at everyone like he ran the place—which, come to think of it, he practically did. 

But her endearingly frustrating Criminal, generally so laissez-faire, turned out to be the bane of Claire’s medical team’s existence. He probed in depth about all treatments, he insisted on being there during her PT sessions, and he was fond of glowering at everyone and anyone he thought could do a better job. It drove her *nuts*, but she could understand where this Mother Hen mentality came from. Technically, it *was* his father who had put her here, and she knew that he was still on edge, if not outright terrified. So, she humored him. 

Her brother wouldn’t, however. 

“Johnathon Edmund—Shermer General’s Most Wanted for being really fucking annoying,” Josh cracked where he leaned against a heater under the window in her room.

At her feet, Annie tried to rein in a laugh. John crossed his arms and glowered at her brother. “I just wanna make sure they know what they’re doin’.” 

“Something tells me they are a wee bit more learned than you in the art of medicine, Nigel.”

“Call me ‘Nigel’ again and I’ll kick your ass, Clarence.” 

Josh laughed. “*You*? Might as well tell me you’re gonna send me to Narnia.” Claire’s brother thumbed toward the mahogany armoire a few feet behind him. 

Annie met Claire’s gaze and shook her head. “Are they always like this?”

“Pretty much.” 

The boot on her foot temporarily taken off, Annie had her gently rotate the ankle. She winced and went pale as the pain engulfed her. Every time she moved the appendage even a little, it responded like a sledge hammer was being taken to it. 

“You okay, Sweets?”

Claire nodded a little too vehemently as Annie slowly lifted her leg up and down, up and down. “It just, um, hurts.”

John set the can of Coke he’d been slurping from on top of the nearest surface. “I think that’s enough for now.”

Annie glowered and ignored him. Claire pursed her lips to keep from laughing. 

“John’s right,” Claire’s father said, sauntering back into the room and putting his mobile phone away. He was supposed to be at work, and, as the head of a conglomerate, his attention and opinion were required on a lot of different things. Thus, even when he *wasn’t* at work, he was at work. “I believe that’s enough for the moment.” 

*That* had her physical therapist nodding and packing up her instruments, collecting the aids she’d brought with her. One did not contradict Richard Standish if one wanted to keep their job. 

Once she was gone, frustrated, Claire gingerly flopped back on the bed and buried her face in her palms. John came to sit beside her. “I feel so pathetic.”

His hand came up to smooth down her hair. “You’re not pathetic, Princess. That’s the *last* thing you are.”

“Yes,” her dad agreed, moving to stand in front of her bed. “No daughter of mine is pathetic.” Suddenly, the gray Motorola in his left hand began to trill. Richard rolled his eyes, read the number on the screen, and sighed. “I need to take this. I’ll be back, sweetie.” She watched whilst he walked toward the door to her room and began sneering into the receiver at whoever was on the other end. 

Still leaning against the heater, Josh shook his head. “Sometimes, I forget that Dad is terrifying.” 

“At this rate,” Claire complained as though her brother hadn’t spoken. “I’ll be here for a year.”

John shook his head with a small smile. “No, you won’t. You just…go at your own pace.”

The Princess scoffed. “My own pace is glacial.” 

“You don’t wanna overdo it. Don’t hurt yourself, Cherry.”

The fact that John was talking genuine logic only emphasized just how serious the situation had been, and how close she’d come to… Claire shuddered. She didn’t want to think about it. 

“Yeah,” Josh agreed, gliding a few steps forward to look down at her. “For once, Johnathon Edmund is making sense.” Claire’s lips quirked. Ever since her brother had learned what John’s full name was, he’d yet to call him by anything else. It annoyed him to no end. “If you overwork yourself, you’ll just end up having to stay here longer.”

Claire sighed and pushed herself to a sitting position. John and Josh started to assist her, but she exasperatedly waved them off. “I hate this.”

One of John’s arms wrapped around her shoulders. At least her movements weren’t hindered by attached machines anymore. “I know, babe. You’ll be outta here before ya know it.” 

“Dad will see to that,” Josh said with a smirk. “You know he’ll hire you the best private physical therapist in Chicago if you still need PT at home.”

Claire frowned at the notion that she’d need to continue this crap beyond these walls.   
**  
Brian was growing annoyed.

He still had one more final for an Advanced Calculus class to finish and, although math came easy to him, a branch such as calculus required every bit of his attention. He’d been all prepared to finally complete it today, setting up a makeshift testing area in the crappy motel room’s kitchen/dining space—test booklet, Scantron sheet, handful of number 2 pencils and pencil sharpener, extra eraser, and T-3 scientific calculator. The finals needed to be graded before July, his professors had warned him before he and Jackie took their leave of absence. So he *had* to finish this last one ASAP. 

Cue today being the one day that was full of interruptions. 

First, bright and early, his mom dropped by to “visit”—try to convince him, yet again, to transfer back to Northwestern. “You’re here, what’s the point in going back?” It’d taken two full hours to get her to leave. Second, the motel’s manager came by to demand more money. Lastly, Jackie, already finished with her own finals, unthinkingly flipped on the TV all the while crunching on a bag of Gold’s Pretzels and slurping from a bottle of Coke. Brian’s girlfriend had a habit of chewing crunchy stuff quite loudly. In the past, he’d jokingly called her his favorite wood-chipper. 

Now that he was furiously trying to complete this damn test, it was less cute and more aggravating. 

Brian sighed and dropped his pencil. “J—Jackie, can you *please* eat something softer?”

Jackie, clad in a washed-out pair of pink turtle pajamas, paused, then slowly removed her hand from the crinkling bag of Gold’s. “Sorry. I’ll, uh, get some Jell-o?”

‘As long as it’s not my gummy worms,’ Brian mentally grumbled and went back to his exam. 

Twenty minutes later, there was yet another knock at the door. Exasperated, Brian threw his arms in the air, letting two of the pencils roll off the table to clatter to the floor. 

‘I am never going to finish this,’ he groaned and dropped his head to the surface. 

Jackie popped up from the shitty couch in the living area and crossed the room to answer the door. Brian expected to hear the accustomed trill of his mother, or perhaps one of their friends stopping by with news, but was surprised to hear the familiar rumbling tone of Mr. Takahari. 

“Dad?!” Jackie exclaimed. Brian swiveled in his seat in time to watch her step back with her eyes wide. 

Mr. Takahari cleared his throat. Today, he was dressed rather unlike himself in a simple pair of khakis and a Cubs jersey—a bit uncharacteristic of the perpetually formal man. Jackie once told him that her father even had “pajama suits” he wore to bed. “Hello, Jacqueline. May I please come in?”

He observed his girlfriend’s stubborn tilt of the chin and met her eyes. He shrugged, flattening his lips. At the end of the day, it was her call—this was *her* father, after all—but he was already over the, ahem, “gaffe”. Mostly. Mostly over. 

Jackie sighed and opened the door wider to allow her father to enter.

Mr. Takahari cleared his throat and glanced around. “This is a…lovely room,” he lied.

Brian’s girlfriend folded her arms over her grinning turtle shirt. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

Mr. Takahari started to lower himself to the ratty gray couch, seemed to think better of doing so, and straightened again. “Your mother told me that you both are back home. I am sorry about Miss Standish.”

Jackie cleared her throat. “She’s up now. In rehab.”

The man nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. “I am glad. I do not know her, or her father, very well, but they both seem like good people.”

“Unlike her mother,” Brian muttered under his breath, realizing too late that he’d actually said that out loud and not just in his head. His eyes widened, and Jackie pursed her lips to suppress a laugh. 

Jackie gazed at her feet, sheathed in dusty bunny slippers. “Is that all?”

Mr. Takahari heaved an exhalation and, against his better judgment, it appeared, sank down in a wooden, oval-shaped chair that was slightly less dirty than the couch. “No, that is not all. Jacqueline, I had hoped to have a word.” 

“You’ve had a few words.”

“More than a word,” he said with a slight quirk of the lips. It was the first time Brian had ever seen the man smile when not watching a baseball game. “I have stayed away. I had hoped…to give you space. I understand that what I did made you very angry, and with good reason, and—“ 

Unnecessarily fixing her glasses—a nervous habit from childhood—and fiddling with the corner of her shirt, she interrupted, “It’s not just that, Dad, though that was bad enough. All those years riding me about my grades… Nothing ever pleased you. If I got anything less than an A+, I may as well have failed.” 

Brian was pretending to be absorbed in his exam, but he couldn’t stop himself from eavesdropping. They *were* having this conversation only a few feet from him. It wasn’t his fault!

In his peripheral vision, Brian watched as Mr. Takahari placed a hand over his daughter’s. “I know, Koishii.” Nervously, it appeared, he ran a hand through his black hair. “My parents were both hard on me about grades. I suppose it…rubbed off on me.” Turning a bit to gaze into her eyes, shielded behind the thick-frame glasses perched on her nose, he added, “Please. Forgive me.”

Jackie lowered her head, which Brian knew was her attempt to keep her emotions in check. After being by her side for two years now, Brian was quite familiar with her mannerisms and what they all meant. 

Jackie sniffed audibly, hesitated for an overlong moment, then climbed off the couch to embrace her father. 

Brian half-smiled as they murmured in Japanese and returned to his final.  
**

By the second week of June, Claire was finally declared fit enough to be discharged, though she needed to continue rehab in an out-patient facility. If it was a relief for John, it was a fucking liberation for Claire, who was going wholly insane living in that place. She had more at her disposal than most patients, like an apartment three times the size of the other rooms, a private chef, a real bed, and even a Jacuzzi tub in the private bathroom. As it was, though, John knew that she missed home, missed Dani, and missed not being woken up in the middle of the night for a vitals check and having to live by a strict exercise itinerary that started at the asscrack of dawn. 

Since her leg was still casted—and would remain so for at least a few more months—she was discharged in a wheelchair. But not just any old wheelchair. Eschewing one of the rehab clinic’s generic chairs, Rich went out and bought her a personalized one. It was pink. It was glittery. It had Claire’s name stitched on the seat. And the spokes of the wheels were comprised of sterling silver in lieu of the usual stainless steel.

He was vaguely surprised the seat wasn’t made of cashmere or something. 

John snorted in amusement as Claire pulled herself out of the Audi. She refused help to do this and only required of him to remove the wheelchair from the trunk and unfold it. It took a few false starts, but she managed to settle into the chair. The ridiculous chair. It looked like a Barbie accessory. 

“Stop laughing at me!” Claire demanded, narrowing her eyes at him. 

John cringed. His Princess had, understandably so, been a wee bit more irascible than usual. Being confined and unable to do certain things and having to be stuck in the hospital all that time will do that to you. 

“I was laughing at the Pretty, Pretty Princess wheelchair, not you, Sweets,” he insisted. “I would never laugh at you, okay?”

He was being particularly placating right now, both over Claire’s easily angered state and his lingering guilt for what his father had done to her. Yeah, she’d told him over and over again it wasn’t his fault, but he still hated himself nonetheless. 

Claire plucked one red eyebrow. “Oh? *Never*?”

John just managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. If Cherry caught that, she might bite his head off—literally, like a praying mantis. Just because she was in a wheelchair did not mean that she couldn’t do some serious damage. ‘Never underestimate Claire Standish’. “Okay, almost never. I mean, uh, not in this situation?”

Nervously rubbing the back of his neck, John felt like a dumbass. A dumbass who had to watch where he was going. He wasn’t used to having to beat around the bush, but if he did not continue to be *very* mindful of what he said, she either would maim him or cry. Possibly both. At once. 

Sighing, Claire glanced down at her glittery apparatus. “I guess it *is* kinda crazy.”

Bender breathed a lament of release. She wouldn’t have his balls for a hood ornament today.

Claire could not get the hang of steering the thing, so John positioned himself behind the chair and wrapped his fists around the handlebars, pushing her inside. The whole way, from the building’s private parking garage to the front doors, he kept a cautious lookout. He highly doubted his old man would make a surprise appearance so soon after he’d committed fucking attempted murder—if Jake didn’t assume he’d killed her, that was; the mere thought triggered Bender’s vomit reflex—but he was taking no chances. During one of Claire’s sessions in the clinic’s gymnasium, he’d gone out and purchased a revolver. John had gotten his gun license a few years ago once he moved into his first piece of shit apartment in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Chicago. Cheap? Hell yes. As long as you were willing to risk getting shot in the face. 

He was very, very wary of having a fucking gun in the apartment with Dani now mobile, so he’d also purchased a safe. He planned to stash both the safe and the gun inside it in the cabinet above the refrigerator. *Way* out of Dani’s reach. 

He was not leaving the apartment without that gun, now. 

‘Dad better fucking *pray* I don’t find him before the cops do.’

Yes, John had promised Claire that he wouldn’t go *looking* for Jake, but she hadn’t said anything about what to do in case he just “happened” to run into him. Like, say, in the city. Or Shermer. Or at the border. 

In the lobby, the two Bruce Willises held the doors open for them, and Olivier fawned over her, making a show of clutching his heart and crossing himself. Olivier was a rather melodramatic dude. 

“Claire! I mean, Miss Standish. Mon cher, I am so glad that you are all right,” the Frenchman said through his thick accent that, to Bender, sounded like he was stuffed up all the time. 

Claire smiled fleetingly. “Thank you, Olivier. I’ll be fine once I can get this cast off.” She gestured to her casted leg resting inside a metal sling attached to the wheelchair.

The Frenchman folded his hands at his waist. “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

With his accent, the words rang like “Eez zhere anyzhing I can do to ‘elp?” 

“Yeah,” Bender said before Claire could voice her doubtlessly negative reply. “Can you get the two Bruce Willses—uh, I mean the ‘doormen’—to carry this shit?” He gestured to the pile of luggage at his feet. “Claire wanted her entire wardrobe with her in the hospital.”

“I did not!” she denied. “Just stuff that wasn’t too restrictive.” 

“Claire, you did not need a bunch of summer dresses while doing rehab.” 

She buried her head in her neck like a turtle. “I said unrestrictive…” 

Olivier, baldly entertained, murmured into his headset, and the two Bruce Willises—both clad in slate gray double-breasted suits that made them look like hitmen—wordlessly bent over to pick up Claire’s many suitcases and John’s lone duffle bag.

Up on the nineteenth floor, John pushed Claire’s absurd wheelchair a few feet behind the clodhopping Bruce Willises. They appeared to have no trouble balancing all that pink bullshit. And, weirder, they walked in exactly the same cadence, imitating the other’s mannerisms and inflections perfectly. They were like the Doublemint Twins—if the Doublemint Twins gave up shilling gum and joined the Mob instead. 

John guffawed thinking about it. ‘I bet they’d have tommy guns that look like packs of gum.’

Claire glanced at him over her shoulder, confused and shaking her head. 

John held his breath past Mrs. Lowing’s door, *praying* that she wouldn’t come out; he didn’t have the wherewithal, or the patience, to deal with Her Cragginess today. But, bless, the door remained shut, and he exhaled deeply in relief. 

Sporto appeared in their apartment’s doorway before either of the Bruce Willises could knock. Quirking his brows, plainly perplexed, he observed whilst the two goons sauntered across the threshold like they did so all the time and wordlessly deposited their luggage on the living room floor. Then, they exited, also without a word. 

Andy crossed his arms as they drew near. “You guys running a money laundering scam I don’t know about or something?”

“Yes,” John agreed as he rolled Claire inside. Sporto closed the door behind them. “You’ve discovered our big secret, and now John McClane I and II back there will have to kill you.” 

“It’d have to be them,” Sporto scoffed. “You’d never be able to lay a finger on me in a thousand years.” 

“I could lay *one* finger on you.” And Bender promptly flipped him off. 

Sporto ignored him and gazed down at the Princess, who was attempting to maneuver the wheelchair herself, to no avail. “Hey, Claire! How ya feeling?”

Claire gave up trying to control the apparatus and beamed up at him with a face full of sarcasm. “Slightly less like a pile of dog shit on the side of the road.”

The Sport smiled flickeringly. “Um, well, at least it’s not dog shit in the middle of the road?”

Claire rolled her eyes and haltingly inched the thing forward, declining any assistance, until she managed to reach the couch on which Allison was sitting. In her lap was Dani, both giggling and cackling at Fred Flinstone’s antics. 

“Yabba dabba do!”

Lingering in the front foyer, Sporto sobered. “How you doing, man?”

Bender sighed and leaned back against the nearest wall, as though his legs simply refused to support his weight anymore. Dropping the smartass façade, generally his resting face when talking to the Sport, he nervously raked one hand through his hair and found that his arm was subtly shaking. “Better now that she’s outta there. Shit.” Out of view of Claire and Basketcase in the living area, he slid down to his haunches, exhausted. “I was *this close* to losing her, Sporto. This. Fucking. Close.”

Andy imitated his actions, bracing himself against the opposite wall nearest the kitchen. “But you didn’t.”

“I could have.”

The Sport shook his blond head while balancing on the balls of his Nikes. “But you *didn’t*,” he reiterated. “You can’t live on What-ifs. You’ll drive yourself nuts, dude.” 

Bender exhaled slowly through pursed lips. Sporto was right, which he hated admit out loud in any capacity. Living with that bastard he called “Dad” for eighteen years had bestowed upon him the What-if habit. What if that knife Jake used to slit a bloody trail down his arm when he was seventeen had nicked a major artery? What if he hadn’t been around to prevent the old man from violently taking his aggressions out on his wife just one time? 

What if his father *wasn’t* a humongous sack of excrement? 

Shaking the thoughts away, John felt himself expediently nodding. “Okay. Right. So…no What-ifs. She’s okay.” 

He was speaking to himself as much as he was to Andy. 

“She’s okay,” Sporto agreed. “And she’ll be good as new when that cast comes off in a few months.” 

Temporarily distracted watching Claire balance their kid in her arms, standing her in her lap and kissing her chubby cheeks as Allison signed her cast with yellow magic marker, John again bobbed his head, much slower this time. She was okay. And she would be her old Claire self in no time. She was hurt, but she was okay. 

His old man, however, would definitely not be. Not if he had anything to say about it.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: That "Robert Redford approves" gif is from the seventies movie "Jeremiah Johnson". He was some guy who lived in the woods after the Civil War. He also ate people. The movie does not include that part.
> 
> Note 2: When I was watching one of the extras on the Criterion Collection DVD of the movie--or possibly from the behind the scenes episode of TBC on Reelz--there was some footage of the cast promoting it. In one instance, an ET interviewer caught Judd and Emilio coming out of a club. While they were explaining the concept of the movie, I couldn't stop laughing. They looked RECKT! R-E-C-K-T, reckt. I mean, pale, glassy-eyed, broken capillaries. It was hilarious. What the hell kinda shit was going around Hollywood in the 80s? Because they looked like they'd just been hit by a Mack truck full of vodka and quaaludes. Anyway, that is what I was picturing as Drunk Bender. After I saw that footage, I knew I had to add at least one of them drunk off their asses.
> 
> Note 3: Hospital Hair is a legit phenomenon and is the bane of a patient with long hair's existence. 
> 
> Note 4: "The Chronicles of Narnia" were first published in 1950. 
> 
> Note 5: Obvs, Claire *would* have a custom-made wheelchair.


	43. Chapter 42: U Can't Touch This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all! Hope you're not totally climbing the walls in this, our third month of quarantine.

Chapter 42: U Can't Touch This

A few days later, Claire had Jackie accompany her to her Mommy and Me class on the Mile. John had to go back to work, and she still couldn’t figure out how to maneuver her wheelchair by herself. Furthermore, John had asked her—begged her, really—not to leave the apartment alone. And no, Danielle didn’t count, drat it all. Hell, Jackie barely counted; honestly, she was using her friend as a light buffer, which she was privy to. 

Upon his asking her, her first instinct was to argue, to lift her nose in the air and huff in offense, to accuse him of infantilizing her. That was her first instinct. When logic entered the picture, Claire conceded that she wasn’t exactly in top form at the moment, and it would be smart to avoid being alone on the streets while that madman was still at large. 

It all started a day after they returned home, when Claire caught him placing a pistol inside a small safe that she’d never seen before, locking it, and tucking it inside the pantry above the refrigerator. She initially balked at the picture of the gray steel, obviously new from its sheen, and went a little whiter than usual. 

“John! A *gun* in the apartment?! We have an eight-month-old baby crawling around!”

For his part, her fiancé cringed and lowered his arms to his sides after securing the frigging *gun*. He turned to face her, just outside the kitchen doorjamb, and she tried to ignore how far he had to look down in order to meet her eyes. Usually, there were only a few inches between them. She had shrunk a whole GD foot. 

“Believe me, I didn’t forget,” he sighed, leaning back against the counter. “I know. I *know*. I thought about it long and hard, but… Look, I’m leaving it in a locked safe and sticking the thing over the fridge. There’s no way Dani can get to it.”

Claire crossed her arms and said nothing. Guns made her nervous. Had ever since that horrible elementary school shooting in San Diego committed by that “I don’t like Mondays” girl. 

“And I’m leaving it unloaded,” he continued. 

Cautiously, Claire uncrossed her arms and gazed up at him. “You’re definitely leaving it unloaded?”

“Of course,” John confirmed. “I’d only load it before going out. I’d just…feel better, you know, being armed until that shithead is caught.” 

Glancing away from his earnest expression and down at her stocking feet, both of which rested in the chair’s metal footholds, Claire worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “What if he’s never caught?”

Her biggest fear, as it stood right now, was that psychopath John had once called “father” continuing to walk free. 

John shook his head and crouched a bit at the knees to be more level with her. She tried to ignore that. “He *will* be, I promise you that. If the cops don’t find him, I will.”

Sharply, she lifted her head to stare at him. “John, you promised me you wouldn’t go after him.” 

“And I won’t,” he oh so casually replied. “But if I happen to run into him, I won’t be able to control myself, Princess.” 

Claire sighed. ‘I knew he’d find some way around this.’ She supposed that declaration was as good as she was going to get from her hardheaded Criminal. “Fine. But if you get hurt, I’ll kill you.”

John laughed and kissed her.

That was two days ago. Since then, she’d called Brian’s girlfriend asking for a favor. John was *very* wary—to put it mildly—about her going out on her own, especially in her state, but Claire did not want to miss her Mommy and Me class. Danielle loved them; she was a little social butterfly, making friends with all the other babies in attendance. Claire didn’t want to deprive her of that, so she asked Jackie if she could pretty please accompany her…and maybe bring her dad’s Remington?

Jackie pointed out that carrying a loaded rifle into a building full of babies and nursing mothers was not the smartest idea. So, she nabbed one of Sylvia Takahari’s electric cattle prods—“This thing is 11 volts of pure electric current. It can take down Andre the Giant.”—and stuffed it inside a huge purse she borrowed from Allison. 

Jackie came and collected Claire and Danielle, and off to mid-Mile they went, Claire making her first post-crash appearance by rolling into the baby gym in her sparkly pink wheelchair, dressed to the nines in a Lacoste tennis skirt—though she had no intention of playing tennis, that was for sure—and purple polo. This moment of adversity would not bring her down, no siree. 

At Mommy and Me, the other mothers expressed relieved delight that she was okay (Claire was sure they had already known; the “accident” was splashed on every front page of every newspaper in Chicago), and the teacher, Miss Adams, led the group in a “Bingo Was His Name-o” singalong. Then, they finger-painted for a bit, and Danielle made her a lovely picture of…something. Whatever it was, Claire planned to prominently hang it on the refrigerator. 

After the class, they rode through the drive-thru at Burger King, then went back to the apartment. John was waiting for her on the couch with his arms folded. He did not look happy. 

Claire smiled nervously. Jackie stuttered an excuse and hightailed it out of there. ‘Chicken’. 

“Hi,” she demurred as she jerked the wheelchair toward him. Danielle in her carrier was placed on the coffee table. “Um, I didn’t think you’d be home so early…” 

John’s expression was flat. Only a flexed muscle in his jaw belied how truly pissed he was. “I was worried all day, so Big Bill sent me home early to check on you.” 

‘Drat.’

“Claire,” he sighed, dropping the stone-face and raking a hand through his slightly disheveled hair. More disheveled than usual, that was. “Where the hell were you? You promised me you wouldn’t go out alone.” 

Claire was staring down at her exposed knees, intentionally avoiding his glare. When John was angry, everyone knew it. She had ceased being wary of that anger a long time ago, of course, but she still hated to disappoint him. Fiddling with the ring on her finger, twisting it around and around, she said, “I…I just went to my Mommy and Me class. You know how Danielle loves them and I didn’t want to upset her. And, besides, I *did* have Jackie with me.” By the end, her voice had risen a few octaves with a confidence she didn’t feel. She knew that she was in the wrong here and John would not buy her “I took Jackie!” excuse. 

She was right. “You took Lady Brainiac. For protection.”

Claire shrugged meekly. “She had a cattle prod. With 11 volts!” 

“Right,” he drawled, climbing to his feet. “So if my old man attempted to run you over again, she could just…zap the car!” 

A cringe. Nope, she hadn’t thoroughly thought that one through, had she? 

Sighing again, John lowered himself to his haunches, balancing on the balls of his feet. “Claire. When I meant ‘without someone with you’, I was talking about me. With my gun.” 

“…you didn’t specify that…” She was splitting hairs, and she knew it. And split ends were heinous. 

He went on as though she hadn’t given voice to her pathetic justification for skirting around his totally rational admonition. “And what’s more, you brought Dani with you. You put her in *danger*, Claire.” 

Her eyes moistening, Claire sniffed, trying, to no avail, to keep the tears at bay. She *had* put her daughter in danger. All because she needed to get out and she didn’t want to disappoint her baby. That rationalization was not comparable to leaving them both sorta-kinda vulnerable while her attempted murderer was still on the loose. 

The Princess wiped viciously at the corners of her eyes, annoyed and irate with herself. What kind of mother was she? She had failed to notice Danielle’s fever for who knew how long. She’d almost let the baby get crushed under the weight of the baby gate. And now she’d just put her in peril for a fucking Mommy and Me class. 

‘I’m a bad mother.’

“No, you’re not,” John replied to her inner monologue—or what she’d thought was her inner monologue. Evidently, she’d said those words out loud. There was the sound of fabric on fabric as he came to sit next to her chair. “You’re a great mom, Princess. You’re just a *young* mom. Younger moms make mistakes. Believe me, I know.” 

She realized that Laura had been two full years her junior when she’d had John. What would it have been like, Claire wondered, to be a mother before she could legally drink? 

“I fucked up,” she admitted, hands folded carelessly in her lap. 

John wrapped an arm around her. “Yeah, you did. But you’re all right. And Dani’s all right. And you won’t do it again. Right?”

Claire’s initial, immature reaction was to stick her tongue out at him. Mother or not, she *was* only twenty-two years old, only a few years removed from teenhood. Furthermore, she’d grown up rarely being told “no”. Thus, her first instinct against suppression, even for her and her child’s own good, was to sing “Nyah, nyah, nyah”. 

Fortunately, that urge was squashed before it had the chance to make itself known. “I won’t go out without you until he’s caught. Which I hope is soon,” she grumbled.

John’s gaze notably darkened. His brows narrowed, and his irises dimmed from tawny to almost as dark as hers were before her very eyes. “Oh, it will be. Your father has the whole Chicago Police Department on it, remember? Daddy ain’t getting out of *this* one.”

By the look on his face, coupled with his ominous tone of voice tinged with long festering resentment, Claire didn’t doubt him. She was quite aware that Jake had gotten away with way too much shit in the past. 

‘No more. No fucking more’. He was going to pay. Not just for hurting her, but for the years of physical and psychological abuse he’d inflicted on his son. 

The next night, Claire couldn’t sleep. Not that this was anything out of the ordinary these days. Nightmares had been haunting her since she woke up in the hospital—heck, since that day in the park. The ones she could handle were filled with surreal flickers of her attempted murderer. Nothing she could grasp upon waking. The especially bad ones, however, depicted story after story that hounded her all the next day. 

This particular dreamscape had *begun* okay. Better than okay. The dream started off featuring her and John, and they were…well. There were lips and teeth and tongue and sweaty sheets and clawing and gasping. Claire rarely had reveries such as this. She didn’t need them; she had the real thing (although that, she knew, had no impact on John, judging by the state in which he woke up some mornings). It was a pleasant surprise, and even Claire’s dream-mind, that heightened sense of awareness that this wasn’t really happening and you knew it, luxuriated in the images. 

When her dream-self gazed up at him with a smile, and it wasn’t John anymore. It was Jake, naked, grinning fiendishly down at her. Instantly Dream-Claire tried to clamber out from under him, to push him off her. But she was no match for his strength, and two thick hands came up to wrap tautly around her neck, sausage-like fingers pressing against her esophagus. 

When she jerked awake, the room was pitch black. She could barely see, and that only added fuel to the fire of anxiety she experienced from her nightmare. Claire gasped and moaned, fingers grasping at the blanket. It took John to rouse her from the last vestiges of Dream World. 

“Claire. Claire!”

Her eyelids fluttered open. It was then she realized that the room looked so dark because they’d still been sealed closed. Her gaze flickered from side to side, to John’s alarmed visage hovering over her on the right and the murky shadows of night on the wall on the left and back again. 

Claire sighed, relieved that she was awake and that nightmare had only been that, a nightmare. Slowly, she sat up, struggling a bit with her leg, and raked all ten fingers through her red hair. 

She felt John inch closer to her and rest a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”

Without a word, Claire turned and leaned into his chest, making a pathetic sound in the back of her throat. His arms came to wrap around her slightly quivering form instantly, one open hand rubbing her back, up and down her spine. He murmured some nonsense that she couldn’t understand, then leaned back and peered into her face. “What happened? I mean, what’d you see?”

She hesitated, biting her lower lip until she drew blood. Claire did not really want to discuss *this* particular nightmare with him, lo they had always talked through her shitty Jake-induced dreams in the past. He already felt intense contrition, misplaced or not, about what his father had done to her. No matter how many times she reiterated over and over again that it wasn’t his fault, Claire was aware that John still held himself accountable.

“Come on,” he prodded, bucking her chin with his thumb. “Tell me.”

Exhaling deeply, Claire glanced away from his searching face. “I don’t want to…hurt you or anything.”

John’s expression flickered, and the hands on her back briefly tightened, but he relaxed in quick succession and even half-smirked. “You know I’m not easily offended, Princess.”

Claire breathed a laugh but continued to avoid his direct gaze. “Um,” she stuttered, inching a bit out of his embrace. “It was just… It started out nice.” She smiled flickeringly. “Better than nice. We were…you know.” Claire felt the skin of her cheeks heating in a rare blush. Talking about *that* part of their relationship, when she wasn’t “in the mood” or locked in the heat of the moment, never failed to trigger her coquettishness. 

Up went the other half of his grin. A light sparked in his eyes. “Can you discuss that part? In detail, preferably.”

She whapped his bicep, and John laughed. “Like I said,” Claire continued pointedly, mock glaring. “It was…nice. At first, anyway.”

At once, following the lowered cadence of her tone, John sobered. “’At first’ how?”

Claire looked down at her hands folded in her lap. The left one shook a bit, and she tucked it under her thigh. “I…looked up. In my dream, I mean. And...you weren’t *you* anymore. You--*it*--was him.”

She did not need to specify who “him” was. John’s careful façade came crashing down, and now, his face held a cross between seething anger and deep regret and guilt. Claire winced. She hated this. She absolutely *hated* this. Her fiancé had been blaming himself for the crash since it happened, and every time she thought she was making progress convincing him it wasn’t his fault at all, they were both taken two steps back by something like her nightmare. 

Claire instantly moved further into his grip as his hands loosened. “Stop,” she ordered, palming his cheek. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew it’d make you feel like shit.”

John blew a strand of hair out of his eyes Allison-style. “I already feel like shit.”

Bracing her other hand against his jaw, she prodded him until he was forced to look at her. “Well, don’t. Because I told you—It’s. Not. Your. Fault.”

Her headstrong Criminal pursed his lips, a muscle twitching in his jaw as though he was prepared to argue. But, gratefully, he let it drop and rubbed her exposed arms instead. “Are you all right now?”

Claire rested her head on his shoulder. “John,” she said instead of directly answering his question. “How do you *do* it?”

The deep cadence of his voice rumbled in her ear, vibrating against her cheek. She felt him gazing down at the top of her head. “Do what?”

Wincing, she clambered to a sitting position and stared through the dimness of the room to his questioning expression. “You have eighteen years of his…’brand of parenthood’, of those horrible memories, stored in your mind. I only have this one…*thing* and—“ 

“Hey,” he interrupted, laying a hand against her jaw. “Stop that. What you’ve been through is traumatic. You are completely justified in reacting like this.”

By “like this”, he meant “repeatedly waking up in the middle of the night drenched in a cold sweat and screaming”. 

Claire rested her hand flat against her stomach. She suddenly did not feel too great. The shadowy recollections from her nightmare combined with the tacos she’d eaten for dinner did not a healthy amalgamation make. 

“And to answer your question,” John continued, a ghost of a smile on his face. “It…the dreams, they used to be a lot worse. *A lot*.” 

“How so?”

Shrugging minutely, John glanced down at his lap, his knees pointing to the ceiling. The scar Jake had “gifted” to him when he was seventeen and fucking threw him down the stairs was still there, stretched pink against his beige skin. “You remember. I would wake up at, like, 2 A.M. Always looking around, like the old man was gonna appear through your frigging door and drag my ass home.” 

Claire remembered. Boy, did she remember! Back in Shermer, when he’d sneak into her room at night, after they fell asleep following their…*activities*, he’d jerk awake at some God forsaken hour in the morning, sweating and gasping and shaking. She would stir and try to talk him down, to calm him, kissing him and murmuring stupid bullshit in his ear. But he’d always be frantically searching the room, corner to corner, as though he was trying to reassure himself of Jake Bender’s absence. That he was in *Claire’s* room and not his own, in his father’s domain. 

They grew less and less frequent the more they were together, but glimpsing him so vulnerable, so obviously petrified, never failed to make her see red. ‘How could a parent *do* this to their child?!’ she’d ask herself as she embraced him until he stopped quivering. 

“Well, they got better after I left Shermer,” he went on before she could answer. “After a while, I barely had them anymore.” Craning his head to regard her, John smiled a fraction. “Mostly because of you, I think.”

Claire’s forehead wrinkled. “Me?”

John nodded. “They all but disappeared about a year after I moved in here.” His shoulders bobbed beneath the black Led Zeppelin band tee he wore. “If I were to hazard a guess, Princess, that’s because of you. I got to go to sleep with you every night, wake up with you every morning. I guess I…felt safer, maybe. So they stopped.”

The Princess smiled widely in response. It warmed her heart to know that her mere presence had soothed his tumultuous and tortured mind. She’d figured that the nightmares had greatly petered off due to not living in that house any longer, more than anything else. 

Claire caressed his bicep and leaned against his arm. 

“They’ll fade,” he added, gazing down at her. “The nightmares. I promise you, they’ll fade. Okay?”

She nodded. If anyone knew about nightmares that haunted you, that you couldn’t turn off no matter how hard you tried, it was him. 

“Try to go back to sleep,” John said, lightly squeezing her uninjured leg. “Dani will be up in a few hours.”

Once again, she wordlessly bobbed her head, lay back against the pillows and sheets, and tried very hard to keep her mind blessedly blank as she drifted off.  
**

Alas, they weren’t fucking fading fast enough. Not for John, who had to repeatedly wake the Princess while she was trapped in the midst of a Jakemare, as they’d taken to calling them. And definitely not for Claire, who had to endure those Jakemares. 

Night after night, he’d watch her struggle, trapped in the middle of a terrible incubus. Hear her moan and whimper. Observe her clawing at the sheets and dangerously rolling over onto her casted leg. Sometimes, she even screamed whilst still locked in the Hell conjured by her mind and her recent experience personally dealing with the shithead who’d tortured him for years. In these instances, he’d rouse her quickly, woken from sleep by the combination of shrieking and repeatedly being kicked in the side. Claire left a mean bruise, damn straight. 

Inevitably, Dani would wake, too, wailing into the monitor above their heads, disturbed by her mother’s fear. Claire would always get this horribly guilty look on her face, as though the dreams were *her* fault, as though she could control them. He’d retrieve Dani across the hall and place the baby in her arms for a feeding. That usually calmed her down.

Granted, boobs would calm *him* down, too. 

“Oh, honey,” Claire would coo as the kid yowled, unbuttoning her nightgown. “I’m sorry. Mommy’s sorry. I know, I know. And you were sleeping so nice.” 

On those nights, Dani wouldn’t go back to sleep in her crib, so John would drag the Bart Bassinet over to the bed and rest her in it. She was out before he could return with her yellow blanket. 

One time, following another Jakemare, he woke her up and she spent ten minutes clinging to him, her sniffles gradually becoming kisses on his neck, her full, soft lips pressing against his pulse point, and his boxers grew too tight. He allowed himself to get lost in the sensation for a moment—or two, maybe three—before forcing himself out of it and gazing down at the thick blue cast around her leg to help him back to reality. 

‘Fucking reality.’ 

“Claire,” he groaned as he pulled away. Not far enough to avoid the tantalizing scent of her strawberry shampoo wafting off her hair. “W—we shouldn’t do this now.”

Again, he glanced at her casted leg, stretched beneath her, jarring against the peaches and cream tone of her skin. 

But his Princess would not be deterred. When she wanted something, she got it. Period. And, right now, she wanted *him*--which, under normal circumstances, would not be a problem at frigging all. But now… “Please?” she breathed, staring up at him languidly through those sexy as hell bedroom eyes of hers. “I just…I need to be close. I need to feel your hands on me…” 

John groaned louder and briefly closed his eyes. “I can’t think straight when you talk like that.”

He could hear her smile in her voice. “Good.” 

Popping his eyes open, he gazed into her face, down at her casted leg, then up again at her enormous nursing mom breasts pouring out the top of her nightgown all the while whimpering like a puppy begging for a Milkbone. “Okay, okay. But…*slow*. And if I hurt you, you *have* to tell me.” 

Claire nodded, trying and failing to suppress her smirk, knowing that she won. Claire Standish always got what she wanted. 

The next day, Sporto and Basketcase and the two Brainiacs were over watching an Urkel marathon and laughing while John squatted across the living room trying *again* to put together that stupid swing. He was almost done, he really was. All he needed to do now was get the thing moving. 

Alas, when he cautiously pressed the little white button on the recently completed project, the swing failed to…swing. It was his fourth attempt—not counting the previous seven trying to build the damn thing—and each time, the little red light at the top of the apparatus refused to blink on. 

“Fucking DAMNIT!” he exclaimed, hurling the Philips screwdriver to the floor. Climbing to his feet, John stood glare-pouting at the frigging monstrosity and kicked one of its legs. 

Basketcase pitched an empty, wadded-up marshmallow bag at his head. He glowered when the plastic bounced an inch over his eye. “Hey! Language!” she cried, placing two palms over the kid’s ears as she giggled in her lap. 

Claire, seated on the weird settee, rolled her eyes. “Don’t bother. He never curves his words around Danielle. I’ve tried. It’s like pulling teeth.”

John scoffed just as the phone in the kitchen trilled. “Pot meet kettle, Cherry,” he grumbled, walking across the living area to pick up the ringing landline. “Yeah?”

“Is this the Bender residence?” asked a nasal voice he didn’t recognize on the other end.

John blinked. Usually, the caller asked for the “Standish-Bender residence”. Not that he had any issue whatsoever otherwise. Claire was going to take his last name, after all. That knowledge never failed to leave him grinning like a goof. 

“Uh, yeah,” he stuttered, then cleared his throat. “This is, um, that place. Who’s this?”

“Is this the head of the household?”

‘Damn right I am!’ “Yep. Again I ask who this is.”

The nasal voice went on without inflection. “Sir, we caught the man suspected of attempted vehicular homicide. A Mr. Jacob Bender?”

The phone almost slipped from his grasp. ‘Thank fucking God.’ “You caught him?”

“Yes, sir,” the voice confirmed, blasé as ever. “He’s being held in the Cook County Sheriff’s Office.”

“We’ll be right there.” With a swift click, John hung up the phone and turned to regard everyone gathered in the living room, now staring up at him expectantly. 

John smirked, relishing with gusto the next three words out of his mouth. “They got ‘im.”  
*  
The Cook County Sheriff’s Office was about twenty-five minutes from N. Columbus on the Lower West Side, near to where he worked. After he got the call that his old man had been apprehended, John virtually raced around the room to throw on his jacket and get his car keys. Claire had been a bit more reluctant, which he could understand; she was wary as hell of facing Jake again. She glimpsed him night after night in her dreams, traumatizing enough on its own. If her presence wasn’t necessary, as the victim, he’d keep her as far away from his father as he could. 

Alas, she was required to attend. And he, too, needed to be there in order to confirm Jake’s identification. 

They left Dani with Mr. and Mrs. Tights and the Brainiacs—no *way* was he going to expose his kid to the piece of shit who’d nearly taken her mother away—he helped Claire into the Trans-Am, and they drove through Happy Hour traffic to get to the sheriff’s office. The roads were congested with Chicagoans venturing home from work and/or hightailing it to the nearest bar. Saturday evenings were always the worst traffic-wise. He was relieved he didn’t work weekends. Relieved and annoyed. 

He fucking hated traffic. And Claire insisted on playing the latest Madonna album, to add insult to injury. 

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, banging his open palms on the steering wheel. “We’re never gonna get off Lake Shore. And Claire, could you *please* fucking turn that down?!”

Claire did so with a pout. “You don’t have to be mean.”

“I said ‘please’.” Upon her flattened expression, John sighed and inched the car forward in the meandering traffic. “Sorry. I guess I’m just…wired.”

A (newly re-manicured) hand rested on his thigh, and instantly, warmth spread throughout his leg. “Because you’re…going to see your father?”

John gripped the steering wheel tighter and stretched his lips in a sneer. “I guess.” ‘No. Not “I guess”.’ Bender was very aware that meeting his old man in the clink shortly after he tried to kill his fiancée was exactly why he was wound up tight as a spring. He was holding the wheel so tightly, he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover finger prints embedded into the plastic. 

He took his eyes off the unmoving line of cars for a second to glance at her. “You gonna be okay for this?”

Claire ceased playing with her egg-shaped fingernails, exhaled through pursed lips, and lowered her arms to her lap. “I…suppose. I mean, it’s not like he can do any damage from behind bars.”

Bender nodded absently, pressed his booted foot on the gas as the line started moving again, then slammed on the brakes when it stopped thirty seconds later. Almost causing him to crash into the Honda just ahead. “He cannot. And if he tries, the pigs’ll be on him like white on rice. It’ll all be all right, Cherry.”

John could feel her staring a hole in his cheek as if she wasn’t so sure. 

Ultimately, they reached the precinct just before the sun could dip over Lake Michigan. John grumbled about the congested traffic whilst he rolled Claire’s wheelchair to the passenger seat and, when she was settled, pushed her across the parking lot and inside the building…

…where Rich was already there waiting for them. He was hanging out by the vending machines, cursing at the Coke one for failing to deliver him a can of Sprite. Angrily, he kicked it, and then, like Fonzie before him, the can appeared in the bottom slot. 

John blinked. “Can you do that for me? The machine at the office never works, and all I want is a damn Pepsi.” 

“I’ll have it replaced,” Rich promised, sauntering up to them with his hands clasped behind his back. Smiling, he crouched down a bit to be more level with his daughter. “You’re ready for this, honey?”

Claire shrugged, her face impassive but her eyes belying her true uncertainty and anxiety. John knew this was her “Trying to Save Face” face. “I guess. Daddy, what are you doing here?”

Rich scoffed, straightening, as John pushed Claire’s wheelchair toward the front desk. “As if I would miss staring the monster who hurt my baby in the eye.”

At the front desk, a gaunt, prematurely balding guy with a needle-nose was laughing at a small white TV perched in the corner. His booted feet were propped up on the desktop—John couldn’t fault him that; comfort, damn it!—and he was dressed in the beige uniform of, it seemed to him, coppers in sheriffs’ offices everywhere. From the accents, it sounded like he was viewing a rerun of “The Andy Griffith Show”.

‘A kid in a sheriff’s office watching a sitcom about a sheriff’s office. How meta.’ Needle-nose didn’t acknowledge them, transfixed as he was on the antics of Andy and Barney, so John rolled his eyes and rang the little bell on the edge of the desk. “Yo, Pinocchio!” 

The kid, who couldn’t have been much older than they were, if at all, jumped in his chair and just managed to halt his progression backwards. The skinny legs slid off the desktop immediately, and the TV was flicked off. “Uh, yes,” he stuttered, voice vaguely familiar. ‘Ah, this was the nasal guy on the phone earlier. Looks like Gilbert Gottfried.’ “C—can I help you?”

Rich, ever his take-charge future father-in-law—Jesus, he was gonna have in-laws, which, technically, would make Nora family; John cringed—stepped forward, his façade stonily neutral. “We three of us are here to see the fiend who ran down my daughter.” He gestured to Claire in her wheelchair. 

Gilbert Gottfried, Jr. cleared his phlegmy throat. “I, uh, see. Names?” When Rich listed them off, the kid’s smallish eyes broadened. “R—richard Standish? Of course. Um, right this way.” 

Needle-nose stood, carefully ambled behind the cluttered desk, fished a ring of keys out of his pocket, and clicked open a rusty barred door leading, John figured, to the holding cells. He heard Claire’s shaky intake of breath as he pushed her through, Gottfried closing the door behind them with a clang. 

Behind yet another desk sat a rotund older dude wearing a sheriff’s badge. Rich flashed him his ID, and the sheriff was instantly on his feet and shaking the man’s hand vigorously. “Proud to have ya here, Mr. Standish. I mean, uh, n—not under these circumstances, a’course. Boy, we sure are glad yer all right, Miss Standish.” His mouth, dotted with donut crumbs, stretched in a wormy, ingratiating grin. 

Richard cleared his throat to garner the sheriff’s attention again. “We would like to see Jacob Bender.” 

The sheriff was nodding before the words were out of his mouth. “A’course, a’course! Just go on back yonder; the boys’ll get ‘im.”

In the booths, John turned to view both his compatriots that evening. Exhaling, he flicked his hair back and, noticing that his right hand was trembling slightly, folded his arms over his chest to hide it. “Just, um… Can you stay here for a few minutes while I…?”

…while he confronted his murderous shit of a father shielded behind the safety of a bullet-proof plate of glass? 

Claire and Rich exchanged glances, then nodded in unison. His soon-to-be father-in-law—no matter how many times he referred to Richard Standish as such in his mind, he doubted he’d ever entirely get used to it—briefly placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be back here if you need us.”

John nodded once, took a deep inhalation, and spun on his heel further into the communication room. Each step was slower than the last. The closer he approached those booths, the more nauseas he felt, his stomach twisting in knots. The last time he’d faced his old man, that day in the park, he’d been fueled with adrenaline, outraged that Jake would *dare* to lay a hand on Claire and Dani. Now, however, there was ample time for him to consider just what he was doing and whom he was about to face. 

His father. Finally behind bars where he belonged. Jake had been arrested so many times over the years, but no charge had ever stuck—mostly due to Laura dropping any assault allegations against him. 

Not now, though, not today. Jake would *pay*. Rich would see to that. 

It was ironic, he considered whilst he pulled out a chair tucked into an empty booth. As a teenager, he’d despised how easily richies could pull strings, get whatever they wanted, and slither out of shit. Today—and in the hospital with Claire—he was just frigging thankful. Like Scarlett O’Hara before him, he wouldn’t think about that now; he’d ponder his own hypocrisy tomorrow. 

John sat there waiting for a few minutes, growing more and more agitated as the seconds ticked by. He went from idly drumming his fingers on the booth’s tabletop to frantically tapping his foot against the dusty floor to sweating like a fucking pig. Frustrated with himself, he viciously wiped his shirtsleeve against his moist forehead. ‘It’s just the old man, not the fucking President. Calm the hell down.’

Granted, he would’ve been far less nervous meeting Bush. 

Eventually, two uniformed pigs guided a prisoner dressed in a blaringly orange jumpsuit to the chosen booth—a prisoner he instantly recognized as his father. He looked his usual shit run over twice self—broken capillaries in his nose, eyes shot through with red, droopy jowls, and messy hair. Tonight, however, he also brandished a rather sizable bruise on his left cheek and a swollen nose. 

‘Looks like the old man’s been in a jail fight.’ 

John was mildly disappointed he hadn’t been shanked. But, then again, if he bled out in his holding cell, he’d never face trial. He’d never have to endure the repercussions of his actions.

And, boy, did he deserve the utmost of those repercussions. 

The two coppers pushed Jake Bender into a chair, glanced at John through the plate glass, nodded once, then stepped away, giving them a semblance of privacy. John pursed his lips like he’d sucked on a lemon whilst he regarded the old man, who seemed to be trying to get his bearings. Twisting his head from side to side, he massaged a crick in his neck. Once he ultimately gazed up, into his son’s face, his shocked visage quickly melted into that cocksure grin John knew all too well. 

Even living behind bars, with evidence of having been beaten to a pulp on his face, he was still a fucking arrogant bastard. 

Slowly, John picked up the black receiver on the wall beside him, never taking his eyes off Jake. His father, in turn, mimicked his actions, his smirk frozen in place. 

Bender squelched an involuntary shudder. In the past, he'd sometimes smile just like that before making him bleed. 

Bringing the phone to his ear, all John heard was Jake’s heavy breathing, yet he continued to stare at him through the plate glass wearing that God-awful smirk. It was evident he wasn’t going to talk until John did. 

‘Mind games were always a favorite pastime of his.’ 

Exaggeratedly staring the old man up and down through the glass, John remarked into the receiver, “Nice. Orange is definitely your color. *Dad.*” 

Mr. Bender’s lips twitched at the corners. “Surprised to see ya, *son*,” he replied, the eerily accustomed rumble of his cigarette-scratched Midwestern accent sending a shiver down John’s spine. “When the two goons came to get me, they jus’ said I had me a visitor. Assumed it was your mother.”

John told himself not to wince, not to express any hint of vulnerability in front of his father, so his expression remained impassive. But, inside, he was screaming. Laura was still in Chicago, now living with an old friend from college rather than in that fleabag motel. She stubbornly refused to go back to Knoxville, and John didn’t know exactly how to feel about that. On one hand, it was nice that his ma—his *sober* ma—wanted to be near him and Dani and was concerned about Claire. On the other, he couldn’t control his misplaced anger and depression when he looked at her now.

He was trying not to…do that. Any of it. Place blame on his ma, even unconsciously. But, damn it, he was furious! What had happened to Claire...it was a roadmap of sorts. His ma got the ball rolling when she’d shown up at their door that morning. Then, he’d argue with himself that, after she initially discovered her husband loitering around, she’d tried to leave. But he and Claire had stopped her. Had *that* sealed his Princess’ fate moreso than Laura’s presence alone? 

John had stopped her from leaving. And then Jake approached Claire, Allison, and the baby in the park. Threatened them. Put his hands on them. And made it damn clear to John, when he showed up with that knife, that this “wasn’t over”. 

It wasn’t. And Claire had almost been killed because of it. 

Bender shook the cobwebs off. Here, now, sitting across from the man he once called “Dad”, detained but with only a square of glass between them—his calculating father, who was quite good at reading people (another trait John had inherited from the bastard) and thus could interpret John’s every minute twitch--*that* was not the time to get lost Back There. 

John leaned forward, his elbows braced on the table. Face carefully blank. “Ma’s not in Illinois,” he lied. Mad or not, he could never break the habit of protecting his mother at all costs. 

Jake grinned, cocking his head to the side. “You’re lyin’, kid. I know when you’re lyin’. Your arms get all tense.” John glowered, but the old man just laughed. “S’all right. Doesn’t matter anyway. She’ll come. I know she will.”

‘Over my dead body!’ his thoughts screamed, bouncing off the walls in his head. He would not dare say anything out loud. Every word out of his mouth somehow *confirmed* something to Jake. 

“So,” his father mumbled around a cigarette, attempting to light the end. ‘How the *fuck* did he get that?’ Cigs were damn currency in the Big House, John knew this. Prisoners traded them for all sorts of shit. Food. Drugs. An extra pair of shoes. But this was only the Little House, and his father hadn’t been here long enough to accrue favors. Which meant that he must’ve nabbed it. Once the cigarette was lit, he inhaled deeply, then released the smoke with relish. “I’d ask what you’re doin’ ‘ere, but I damn sure know what you’re doin’ ‘ere.” 

Outwardly pretending nonchalance, John leaned back in his seat. In reality, of course, he yearned to jump through the plane of glass and strangle the man with his bare hands until his eyes popped out. “You made a mistake,” he all but sang, one corner of his mouth lifting in the smirk he did not feel. 

John’s tone seemed to surprise Jake. Or at least intrigue him. For he, too, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Oh?” he mumbled around his cigarette.

The two uniformed pigs materialized out of nowhere. One held his old man down by the shoulder while the other plucked the cigarette out of his mouth with a glower, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it. “Your last warning, Bender,” the younger one growled. “Next time, you’re in solitary.” 

“This is the sheriff’s office, there ain’t no solitary,” John’s father scoffed, obviously unconcerned. 

The older one got directly in his face. “We’ll make do, asshole.” And then, they were both gone, back to their shady corners. 

John grinned. “Not making any friends here, are ya, Dad?” 

“I do all right, don’t you worry ‘bout that,” Jake argued. 

A snort. “Trust me, I’m not.”

Jake reached for the clandestine lighter, remembered that his cig had been confiscated, and lightly banged his fist against the tabletop. “Fuck me, damn pigs. I need a cigarette! Anyway, kid, what were we talkin’ about?” 

“Like I said,” John replied, folding his own arms over his simple white t-shirt. “You made a mistake, old man.” 

His father cackled through his smoke-scratched throat, the sound phlegmy and rough. John had a vision of himself doing just what he yearned to, breaking through the glass and choking the shithead out. “Only mistake I ever made was havin’ you, kid.” 

‘Predictable fucking response,’ John mentally sneered, rolling his eyes. His father couldn’t insult him anymore. Barbs such as those had, as a boy, used to puncture his skin like a physical prick of the sword. Now, so far removed from Shermer and that shitty house on Kenny’s Cove Road, living with someone who actually gave a crap, none of it penetrated. 

But Jake was not incapable of hurting him, still. What he’d done to Claire was proof of that. 

“No matter,” the old man continued. Casually. Like he could give a fuck, and probably didn’t. John would change *that* in a moment. “Bein’ in 'ere sucks, sure, but I got mine. You took my wife from me. I take your girlfriend from you. Eye for an eye, kid.” 

‘I knew it.’ John had figured his father was sure he’d successfully “taken” his fiancée away. The mere notion had his stomach rowing. He had to keep telling himself that, no matter what Jake assumed, she was fine, or would be fine, and sitting only a few feet from him out of eye-shot. 

Once again bracing back against the chair, John allowed an unhurried grin to grow, one he certainly did not feel but one he also knew Jake needed to see. “You didn’t take *anything* away, *Dad*. Claire’s fine.”

His father guffawed, his evil laughter slightly tinny over the phone line. “I saw ‘er. She was *not* fine, *son*.” 

John shrugged. “Well, maybe not *fine*, at least not now, but she will be. Couple of months, when that cast comes off.” 

*Now*, Jake looked mildly alarmed instead of skeptical. His eyes widened minutely, and the lines around his sagging mouth grew tauter. John laughed. “What? You thought you killed her? Please. Like Claire Standish would be taken out by a fucking Dodge.” Slowly rising, he braced his palms flat against the table, glaring down at his father’s head. “You not only tried ‘an eye for an eye’, old man, but you went after Richard Standish’s daughter. You’re gonna fry.” 

Delightedly, John observed as Jake’s beige skin, so much the same as his own complexion, blanched a few shades paler. “Richard Standish?” 

Up went one of Bender’s brows. “What, you never made that connection? You were never that bright. Tsk.” 

Jake pursed his lips like he was sucking on a Lemonhead and leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t believe you, kid. You’re full-a shit, like always. You’re just like me.”

That made John’s blood boil. Fisting his hands at his sides, he bit, “I’m nothing like you. And I may be full of shit, but not this time.” 

Glancing over his shoulder to where Claire and her father idled in the doorway to the booths, John caught their eye and inclined his head. Without a word, Rich stepped behind Claire’s wheelchair and pushed her toward him, her casted leg held aloft. Her eyes were narrowed, glinting like steel, like icicles. No one ever wanted to be on the receiving end of that glare.

As they drew closer, Jake’s eyes broadened all the more, and John felt like the cat that ate the canary. 

Rich stepped out from behind the wheelchair, his face carefully impassive, strolled into the booth, and very abruptly slammed both hands down on the table. Taking the phone from John, he spat into the receiver, enunciating each word so that his old man understood he was in deep shit. “You hurt my baby. I’m going to make *sure* that you never see the light of day again.”

Jake said nothing but only stared, looking as though someone had punched him in the gut. It made John’s whole fucking day. No, month. 

Plucking the phone back from his future father-in-law, he chirped, “Bye, Dad!” Then, he hung it on its hook with a loud clang, slid behind the wheelchair, and pushed Claire out of the room, making sure to click off the light on his way out. Leaving his father shrouded in darkness with his own thoughts.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Speaking of quarantine, Claire going out despite the risk is rather prescient, now that I realize it. She would NOT do well in self-isolation. Bender would, though. He'd have an excuse to lounge around in his boxers, put his feet up, and watch wrestling for who knows how long.
> 
> Note 2: The "I don't like Mondays" shooting occurred at Grover Cleveland Elementary School in San Diego in 1979, committed by one Brenda Spencer, a 16 year old delinquent who lived across the street. One teacher and a custodian were killed. There were injuries to the student body but, thankfully, they all survived, and Brenda was promptly thrown in the clink.
> 
> Note 3: Andre the Giant, at over 7 feet, died in 1993 from complications of gigantism. Non-wrestling fans will remember him best as Fezzik, the gentle giant in "The Princess Bride".
> 
> Note 4: I lowkey got the idea for Claire's nightmare from the Buffy episode "Amends". In it, she and her vampire paramour are, heh, doing stuff. Stuff of dreams because they can't get down IRL in fear of the friendly vampire becoming decidedly less friendly and trying to kill all her friends. In the dream, that is exactly what happens. Suddenly, Angel is not Angel anymore but Angelus, his evil alter ego. And yes I have seen that episode way too many times and each time the end has me bawling. 
> 
> Note 5: Today, a cop in a sheriff's office watching a sitcom about a sheriff's office would be Xhibit-memed. "Yo, dawg, I heard you like sheriff's offices. So we put a sheriff's office in your sheriff's office so you can jail while you jail."


	44. Chapter 43: Vogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting down to the wire. Probs only a few more chapters left, tho I have a prequel in mind. Or maybe a sequel. Or both. This is a short one before the biggies.

Chapter 43: Vogue

**  
It took two months.

Two months for Claire’s huge ass burdensome blue cast to be cut off—following at-home and out-patient physical therapy three times a week. The private PT came by the apartment on Fridays, and she was taken to the best wellness center in Chicago on Mondays and Wednesdays. When John wasn’t working late, he insisted on driving her and staying for the whole ninety-minute appointment. He stood in a corner, arms crossed, wearing a critical expression. After a few weeks, whenever he opened his mouth, Claire glared at him and he shut up. This amused Allison greatly, who made a whipping noise and gesture afterwards when she thought Claire wasn’t looking. 

At Dr. Schwartz’s office back in Shermer General, she got the cast sawed off and replaced with one that was much lighter and could be closed with pins instead of rubber cement. She also got the boot removed, a huge relief. Even as her leg had been healing, she found it very difficult to walk with that thing on. It was like having one foot encased in a cinderblock. 

At rehab, she mainly worked with the bars, did some stretches, and practiced walking up and down an unattached flight of stairs. She was also given aquatic sessions and leg massages. All stuff only the best health insurance could cover, and, having therapy three days a week, she was on the road to totally healed quicker than she would’ve been otherwise. 

After two months, she no longer required the use of the wheelchair. It would’ve been one month, but Claire refused to use a cane to walk; she said its presence made her feel like an old lady. John tried to talk her into it, but she dared *him* to use one, too, and he promptly dropped the argument. 

Now, with Jake behind bars, Claire could go out alone. But, ironically, her stubborn self wouldn’t permit her body the use of aids and she was still a bit off-balance, still limping, so someone always had to be with her with she ran her errands. To make sure she didn’t fall flat on her face and break *another* bone. Jackie came with her to her Mommy and Me classes, Allison accompanied her food shopping, and John insisted on taking her everywhere else. Observing his reactions during one of her gynecologist appointments was amusing. “They have to do that even when you’re *not* pregnant?!” 

Once John’s father was apprehended, Claire quickly resumed the wedding planning. She and John met up with Father Bachman one more time—the appointment went overtime, as John and the priest paused midway through to view the new Van Halen music video in the cathedral’s den—they drove back to Shermer so Claire could see how the cake was coming, and Allison and Jackie schlepped her to Michigan Avenue to ultimately pick out a dress. John wanted to accompany her there, too, but all three girls balked, even Allison. “A man cannot see his bride in her wedding gown before the wedding! It’s bad luck; don’t you know anything?!” 

John had rolled his eyes and departed with Andy and Brian to the arcade. Which just happened to be across the street from the bridal shop. 

Jake’s trial was scheduled to begin next month at the Cook County District Courthouse—with the Honorable Judge Marshall Stevens presiding, a particular friend of her father’s—and Claire was decidedly not looking forward to it. She relished the notion of that asshole finally getting his just desserts, but the thought of facing him again, of looking into those eyes that had only shown emotion when her dad revealed himself and Jake knew he was in deep doo-doo, was not her ideal. She would do it, of course. The prosecutor needed her to testify; she was the whole case. But…still. 

Whenever she closed her eyes and saw herself in the same room with Jake Bender, hindered only by handcuffs, her stomach started to turn. Over and over, crashing like a stormy sea in her gut.

The last few months had mostly been fraught and frustrating. She was either discussing her case with the D.A. or enduring therapy. Every session was two steps forward, one step back. Just when she was feeling confident in her progress, she tripped up the exercise staircase or slipped in the middle of a stretch and collided with a wall. Claire was surprised that she hadn’t broken her nose at this point. 

Truly, the only heartwarming moment that occurred these past few months was the event of Danielle’s first real word—and no, it wasn’t “shit”, though she had no doubt that the baby would pick up a few four-letter words soon enough. According to Dr. Lipschitz’s book, many children’s first word was “Daddy”, and Miss Danielle Jane was no exception. 

The First Word Milestone occurred on June 19, 1990 at 3:03 P.M. Claire had marked the exact date and time in Danielle’s Baby Book, which Claire had begun six weeks previous; she had to do *something* while she was healing. She’d also commemorated some of her other signposts—when she started crawling, her first art project, her first non-milk meal. Danielle was particularly fond of strained peaches. 

Claire was lounging in the living room post PT session, relaxing after doing ninety minutes of stretching her weakened body to its limit. She leafed through the June issue of “Vogue” while Danielle fiddled with her toys inside the playpen and John took another stab at getting that swing to work. Futilely. 

“Mother fucker!” he yelled with, obviously, no consideration of the nine-month-old infant just a few feet away. Claire had stopped bothering to try to get him to curb his language around Danielle. A fish has gotta swim, a bird’s gotta fly. 

Peeking over the top of her magazine, Claire merely shook her head and went back to reading about Gianni Versace’s new line. 

Her bubble was broken by the sound of her child’s adorable baby blather. Claire lowered the magazine and smiled, watching her daughter stare at John whilst he returned to messing with the electric swing, still steadfastly refusing to peek at the directions. Just as she was lowering her gaze back to the article, her baby raised a chunky arm, fingers pinching toward her father, and very clearly proclaimed—

“Da!” 

“Vogue” quickly forgotten (and Claire Standish did not easily tear her gaze away from her fashion magazines), Claire gasped, struggled to a standing position, and limped over to the playpen. Peering down at her baby, she said, excited, “Sweetie, what was that? Can you say that again?”

That garnered John’s attention, and he turned around and, still clutching the screw driver, rested both hands on his hips. 

Danielle gestured more forcefully this time and repeated, “Da! Da-Da!”

John dropped his screwdriver, his jaw hanging open like a dead fish’s. Claire squealed, cautiously lowered herself to her knees, and plucked the baby out of the playpen. “Oh, my God! You said your first *word*, baby!” She kissed the top of her head, over the wiry red hair, and on the corners of both chubby cheeks. “John, you’re her first word!”

“Da!” Danielle cried again, bouncing excitably in her embrace. 

Looking as though someone had punched him in the face, John crossed the room and bent down to heft the *newly vocal* infant in his arms. Her stout little legs came to rest around his waist. “It’s not ‘shit’, but I’ll take it!” he laughed, kissing her temple. 

Claire clapped in glee and climbed to her feet, bracing her hand against the playpen for assistance. Bending to be more level with Danielle’s eye line, she cooed, “Now, can you say ‘Mama’? Say ‘Mama’!”

John hefted the baby higher over his hip and scoffed. “She just said her first word. Don’t pressure her.”

The Princess’ eyes went half-mast. “You’re only saying that because her first word was ‘Da-Da’.” 

He grinned and shrugged, clearly not denying it. Claire reached under the coffee table, wincing when pain shot up her leg, to retrieve a light blue book patterned in little pink hearts. “I’ve got to mark this in Danielle’s Baby Book!”

John cocked an eyebrow whilst Danielle pulled on his hair. It didn’t seem to bother him. “Baby Book? Since when does Dani have a Baby Book?” 

Claire’s shoulders bobbed. “I had to do *something* while I was locked in here. Ally picked it up for me at the Hallmark store on 11th. She originally wanted the one with the vampire on the front.” 

“Of course she did,” he chuckled. “She can save that for her own kid. Who no doubt will literally suck blood. And protein shakes.” 

Claire marked the occasion in the Baby Book, then elatedly pressed both hands against the baby’s jaw and beamed. Her first word!

That was the one bright spot of the past few months. The worst was when her mother insisted on dropping by unannounced to see the baby—in a strictly grandmotherly capacity, where she could spoil her rotten with toys and cute little outfits without having to be responsible for her in any way. Nora wasn’t on her and John’s approved visitors list, but she usually let her mother up; as much as Narcissist Nora annoyed her, Claire couldn’t justify keeping her away from Danielle. 

Though if she, like, kidnapped her and dragged her to the town hall to change her name, all bets were off. 

One day, not long after the First Word, she showed up just as Claire was airing out her dress. She’d gotten the alterations completed, and Jackie dropped it off for her. Once she let the chiffon and lace material breathe sufficiently, she stepped into the dress, trying it on for the first time since that first day in the bridal shop when she’d fallen in love with it. 

Everyone said that a girl simply *knew* when she found The Dress. And they were right. 

Claire Standish never in her life would’ve figured herself falling in love with a tea length dress. Shorter dresses, in her opinion, were for cocktail parties and bat mitzvahs. Growing up, her dream gown had always been steadfast—it was poufy, it was frilly, and most of all, it was pink, a subtle blush tone that looked white at first glance. A gown fit for a princess! 

That was why the cream-colored tea length had surprised her. Pre-crash, she’d only tried it on at Sloane’s urging, glided up to the mirror prepared to hate it, and it was love at first sight. Composed of chiffon, lace, and tulle, the bodice’s angled sweetheart neckline stretched to encompass matching flutter sleeves that bloomed at the waist, a tulle skirt overlaid with a layer of lace and chiffon. Claire had to include *something* pink, so the employee assigned to her initial appointment tied a simple blush-hued silk sash around her waist. It was perfect. And it would look fabulous with the silver drop earrings and matching heart pendant she bought to wear with it. 

A light knuckle-rap, followed by a more insistent press of the bell, jolted Claire from her reverie. Her mother; Olivier had called up to let her know that she was in the lobby and reluctantly cleared him to send her up. Sighing, barefoot, Claire stepped away from the full-length mirror in the bedroom and walked out into the hall, favoring her healing leg. 

Claire pulled the front door open, and Nora swished inside without a word, engulfed in a cloud of her usual scent—the smoke from the Gaulois she was puffing on and Chanel No. 5. Today, her mother was donning a sailor-inspired white and navy skirt suit with a row of shiny gold buttons down the middle and, as always, thick shoulder pads that left her looking like a well-dressed refrigerator. 

Twirling on her teetering navy pumps, Nora glanced her daughter up and down, then placed her Freddy Kruger-hands over her nonexistent hips. “Tell me you’re not still going through with this farce.” 

Claire gave a rather unladylike snort that she knew would disgust her mother. “You mean my wedding? Of course I’m going through with it, Mother.” 

Her mother gawped at her as though she’d just stated that she was going to climb to the peak of Mt. Everest. “Are you absurd?! That *boy* almost killed you!”

The Princess should not have been at all surprised that Nora would break out that patently false justification, and she really wasn’t, but that didn’t prevent her from glaring icicles at the woman. Her Glare of Death, as John called it, never failed to have an impact. “He did *not*! You are *abhorrent*, Mother.” 

Nora pooh-poohed, the barb bouncing off like she was made of Teflon. “Perhaps he didn’t drive the car, but his father did. And his father targeted *you* to get to *him*.”

Claire closed her eyes and counted to ten to keep from shoving one of her newly manicured fingernails through her mother’s eyeball. That was *exactly* what her guilt-ridden fiancé said to support the erroneous theory that, underneath it all, the crash had been his own doing and not Jake’s. 

“Which is not his fault,” she argued now, opening her eyes to shoot daggers at her mother. “He didn’t know what was going to happen! He *couldn’t*, he’s not psychic!” 

Her mother vaguely waved in her direction. “Details. He still knew what the man was like. He had to have known that keeping you around would put you in danger eventually. He should *never* have looked twice at you in the first place! You are far too good for him.”

That did it. Claire was furious—and when Claire Standish became furious, the reaction was instantaneous, like a stack of TNT going off. Claire grabbed one of Danielle’s toys off the couch and hurled it at the wall, in the exact same spot she had nearly taken off John’s head with the phonebook that time. 

Nora gasped. ‘Great. *That* gets her attention.’ “Claire Chastity Demetria Standish!”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Don’t you ‘Claire Chastity Demetria Standish!’ me, Mother. Don’t think that I don’t know the whole time I was in the hospital, you were putting on an ‘Oh woe is me!’ show for your friends’ benefit. I know your M.O. *You* come first, always!”

The woman stood stock still, only her mouth working as if to find words, a rebuttal of sorts, that she could use to defend herself. Nora Standish was not used to being stood up to, especially by her own daughter. Generally, Claire ignored her antics because otherwise, she’d erupt in a deadly volcano of rage all the time, and she didn’t need the headache. She could brush most things Nora did off as the shenanigans of a clueless narcissist, from demanding she change Danielle’s name to arranging an adoption behind her back to trying to set her up with some senator’s son or CEO’s nephew. But this…using the “accident” as leverage for her campaign against her future son-in-law when he already felt horrible every day…that had Claire’s blood boiling. 

“And furthermore,” she continued against her mother’s gawping. “It was *me* who pursued *him*.” 

Who had snuck into the closet that day at the end of detention? Who had kissed his neck because she knew he wouldn’t? Claire had been the first to call *him* the very next day—again because she knew he wouldn’t, that a large part of him was afraid to. He confessed to her outright, a few months into their relationship, that he’d been so *wary* of starting anything with her, worried that he’d sully her or break her or…just scare her by being his own asshole self. And Claire also knew, because of that mentality combined with how classist Shermer could be, that he’d remained wary for years—less and less so as time wore on, but the caution was still there. It was why that day Claire had told him about the pregnancy, both yesterday and a lifetime ago, he’d instantly assumed she'd met someone else. 

But Claire Standish always got what she wanted in the end. And John Bender was what she’d wanted. What she continued to want. And eventually, he ceased shitting on himself all the time. 

The crash had sent him back *so* many paces, and her mother was taking blatant advantage of that. 

Nora maintained staring at her like she’d never seen her before. Claire let out a deep exhalation, calming herself down, and gently pushed her mother toward the front door. “I think we need a moment, Mother, and I have some errands to run. So…please.” And, without another word, shut the door behind her.

Yeah, *that* hadn’t been the best day. Though she’d looked great in her dress! Claire hated that she almost felt tainted wearing it now, considering the argument that had occurred while she was it it and the disgusting sentiments out of her own mother’s mouth. But she refused to allow Nora to ruin her love of this dress—or the wedding as a whole. 

Claire did her errands—mostly food shopping, picking up the dry cleaning, and making a withdrawal at the bank—and waited. Sure enough, three days later, her mother called to stiffly apologize—herded, she knew, by her father. This was the routine at this point. She and Nora fought, a day or so passed, and she called to apologize with Richard’s glare at her back. The last thing Claire needed was to get herself worked up, it could hinder her healing, so she reluctantly accepted and agreed to lunch with Nora at Eastlake for that Saturday. 

It wasn’t long into the luncheon that her mother reverted to her old Narc Mom self. Surrounded at her usual table by Nora’s minions—such as Jessica McKee, Linda McDonough, Donna Ives, Zinnia Wormwood, and a reluctant Katie Bueller. All were bouffanted and expertly tailored in outrageously expensive apparel—except for Mrs. Wormwood, whose leopard-print lycra high-waters and overly bleached hair stood out amongst the Benetton crowd. Nora mostly tolerated her out of pity and amusement. 

“Claire, darling, I want to apologize again for my behavior the other day,” her mother oozed for her friends’ benefit, reaching across the table to take her hand. “It was…uncalled for of me.”

Claire fought the urge to roll her eyes. She didn’t need to give her mother’s Ladies Who Lunch squad the ammunition. “It’s fine, Mother.”

Nora beamed and clapped her hands once. “Good! Now, as for—“

The waiter came to take their orders. All of the women ordered a variant on salad, from Nicoise to Caesar to Asian. Zinnia originally selected a hamburger, but stares from the rest of the crowd had her giving in to peer pressure. 

Claire ordered the lasagna. 

Once the waiter left, Nora set her sights on her daughter again. “Now, as I was saying. About the baby’s name…” 

‘Oh, my God. I can’t believe she’s still on this.’ On second thought—‘Yes. Yes I can.’ 

“Remember, you only have a few more months to change it without penalty,” she went on, sipping from her water glass. 

“I’m *not* changing Danielle’s name, Mother,” Claire scoffed, reaching for a piece of bread in the basket. 

Nora slapped her hand away. “Must watch your weight if you are going to fit into that…dress.”

Claire defiantly grabbed a piece anyway and slathered it with butter. 

Jessica McKee, the hated Stef McKee’s mother, shook her blonde head and lightly dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin for no discernible reason. “Bread has so many carbs. As does butter.” A pause, her red lips spreading in a faux smile. “Not that *you* need to worry, dear.” 

The woman visibly stared Claire’s post-baby body up and down, and she wanted to smack her. ‘Like mother, like son.’ 

“Are carbs bad?” Zinnia Wormwood asked, a slice of rye bread halfway to her lipsticked mouth. Her voice, as usual, was heavily accented in the Long Island dialect, lo how she’d tried to suppress it with diction classes. “I didn’t realize carbs were bad!”

Nora glanced askance at Mrs. Wormwood. “Dr. Atkins says that a diet high in carbohydrates can lead to significant weight gain.”

Mrs. Wormwood dropped the rye bread as though it had just burst into flames. Claire now felt sorry for her kids, Michael and baby Matilda. ‘They’ll be eating tasteless slop now.’ 

Linda McDonough and Donna Ives traded stiff-lipped glances. Claire hated these people. It wholly unnerved her that, if she’d never met John and the others, she likely would’ve turned out exactly like this. 

Claire ate another slice just to annoy them all. 

Nora cleared her throat, choosing to ignore her daughter’s carbo tyranny. “I gave Andrew Clark a list of acceptable monikers. Did he pass it on?”

Sighing, the Princess leaned back in the brass, claw-footed chair. “Yes, he did. And I’m still not changing her name.”

Her mother hurried on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Norina is my preference.” 

“I liked Honora, personally,” Mrs. McDonough said. 

‘Of course she did. It literally is “honor Nora”.’ 

“That’s lovely, too,” her mother agreed.

Claire mumbled an excuse shortly after their food arrived and got the hell out of there. Allison was idling at the entrance before she left the building. 

“Try to get you to change Danielle’s name again?” she asked as she pulled the car out of the lot. 

Snorting, Claire nodded. “Surprised I didn’t see *your* mother there.”

Ally scoffed and sailed onto the highway. “Please. Lenore and Joseph are in Bermuda. I think. Could’ve moved onto Trinidad by now.” 

The next night, Claire sat in the beautiful rocking chair John had made her and fed Danielle, then turned the mobile on and put her to sleep. After she shut the light in the nursery, Claire crawled in beside John, who was already snoring, opened the bottle of Percocet on the sill beside her, and dry-swallowed a capsule. John, she knew, was very uncertain about Claire taking this stuff; it was, after all, the same opioid that had addicted his mother for years. But Dr. Schwartz had prescribed it, and the pills helped dilute her pain. For his sake, though, she wouldn’t take more than two a day. One in the morning and one at night. 

She woke up in the middle of the night to her leg positively throbbing and that same lightning pain at the base of her spine she sometimes experienced post-crash. Gritting her teeth, Claire just stopped herself from reaching for the bottle one more time and instead jerkily traversed the bedroom, searched through John’s t-shirt drawer where she knew he kept his stash, and plucked out the Ziploc bag full of sativa. With shaking hands, she grasped one of his plastic Bic lighters and limped outside to the balcony to roll a joint. When she was in pain and she’d already taken her allotment of Percocet, she defaulted to marijuana. John still wouldn’t tell her who his dealer was. 

Frustrated, Claire ripped off a piece of cheese paper in a box they kept out here, poured some MJ on top, and clumsily rolled it. Was that enough? She hoped that was enough. Her shaking hands had a bit of trouble sparking a light; the flame would flash then flick out, flash then flick out. Claire released a low whine and shook the lighter. 

A hand reached over her shoulder from behind, grasped the blue plastic rectangle, and carefully, expertly, sent it alight and touched the bouncing flame to the roach Claire clenched in her teeth. A hand rested flat against her back as she puffed. “You all right?”

“My leg is killing me,” Claire groaned, her speech slightly muffled from the joint. 

John nodded, stepped forward, and curled his hands around the balcony’s bannister. “Inhale deeply, then let it out slowly.” 

She did as he directed, allowing the smooth smoke to fill her legs before deliberately expelling. 

“Better?”

The Princess nodded, briefly shutting her eyes. “Thank God.” 

“You can call me John.”

Claire gazed at him for a second and guffawed. He could always make her laugh when she was feeling like shit, either physically or mentally. Or both. 

John grinned and lightly rubbed her back. “One of those ‘bad days’?”

Her leg gave Claire “good days” and “bad days”. On a really good day, she only recalled her healing appendage when she had to walk. On a bad day, however (usually one that was overcast and rainy), the pain could be excruciating. She felt like Paul Sheldon in “Misery” after Annie Wilkes crushed his injured leg with a sledgehammer. 

On those days, there was not enough weed in Chicago that would take the agony away. 

Claire clenched her teeth around the doobie and nodded. “Not a great day.”

“Sky’s been gray and shitty all day,” John said. “Probably didn’t help. Come on, let’s go back inside. You need your beauty rest, Princess.” 

She stubbed out the joint, and he helped her lame self back into the apartment, down the hall, and into their bedroom. Instead of climbing beneath the sheets, Claire simply sat on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, listening to Danielle’s soft, even breaths over the monitor. Sleep was not going to come easy for her tonight; it rarely did on one of her bad days. 

Sighing, John abandoned climbing under the sheets and came to sit beside her. Taking one of her limp hands in both of his, Claire continued to stare out into nothing whilst he twisted the ring he’d given her around her finger. In the mirror opposite, her reflection manifested the physical discomfort she experienced. Her complexion was bleached corpse white. The whites of her eyes were struck through with red (likely curtesy of the MJ), significant purplish shadows ringing beneath. Her posture was slumped in lieu of her usual excellent deportment, compliments of years of after-school cotillion. And her lips were chapped and bloodless. 

“You know,” John started suddenly, making her jump a little. She’d been so sucked into inspecting her own horrendous image in the mirror. “When I gave you this thing, I meant every word. Right?”

Claire turned her head to regard him and smiled through her pain, slightly dulled now from the weed. “Mmm, I know you did.”

John continued staring at the ring on her finger, idly polishing the diamond with the pad of his thumb, callused from strumming his guitar and working with wood all day. “So, then, what are we waiting for?”

Claire furrowed her brow and lightly palmed his cheek to get him to look at her. Searching his face, she saw no hint of the general smartassery she’d come to know and tolerate. “You want to get married now?”

John shrugged. “Why not? It’s not gonna be a big thing, right? We don’t need to spend a year planning ahead. You have the dress. Cake’s almost done. I booked us a band that doesn’t suck.” Claire laughed through her nose; John didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her when it came to music. He’d demanded to audition potential bands himself. Which, she figured, likely meant that she’d be walking down the aisle to “Paradise City”. “All’s we need is to reserve the beach, right? I’m *sure* your old man can arrange that in, like, an hour.”

It was true. He probably could. Less than an hour. 

Claire gazed down at her leg wrapped in the ACE bandage and gently flexed her toes. “You…I mean, you wouldn’t care if I had to still wear this thing?”

John guffawed. “Claire, I could not give less of a shit.” 

She smiled; Claire was so used to caring too much about visuals, how things would *look*, that she often forgot that John could care less. If she wanted to walk down the aisle in a trash bag, he’d be cool with it. ‘He might even like it. He can have some weird fetishes sometimes.’ “Okay.”

Up went one of his eyebrows. “Okay? Really?”

Claire’s shoulders bobbed underneath the white nightgown she wore. “Let’s do it. I’ll call the hotel tomorrow.”

This was John—she did not need to put on airs around him, to look perfect, to *be* perfect. They were having a small ceremony in front of close friends and family. It wasn’t like a photographer from “Vanity Fair” was going to be there—at least, she hoped not. If her mother tried to sneak one in, she’d rescind her invitation, that was for damn sure. 

They crawled under the covers, John stared up at the ceiling, then chuckled. “Shit. We’re really doing this.”

“We so are.”  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: lol. Boyfriends at gyno appointments, amirite?
> 
> Note 2: I couldn't find a judge character in the Hughesverse, so I borrowed Judge Marshall Stevens from "Liar, Liar" xD That movie came out in '97, so, in my world, the good judge worked in Chicago before moving to California.
> 
> Note 3: Again, Claire would do SO bad in quarantine. She'd be climbing the walls within a week. 
> 
> Note 4: Gianni Versace was murdered that same year in Miami, FL by a self-hating member of the LGBTQ community. Donatella, his sister and IRL Italian Barbie, heads up the House now.
> 
> Note 5: lols I borrowed Zinnia Wormwood from "Matilda" also. Zinnia was such a social climber, I thought she'd fit in with Nora's crowd. The movie never specifically stated where they live, so I'm pretending the Chicago 'burbs. Fact: Mara Wilson is 33 now. We're the same age. I feel old.
> 
> Note 6: Donna Ives is a shoutout to the actress, Dana Ivey, who plays the snooty desk clerk in "Home Alone 2".
> 
> Note 7: Dr. Atkins originally came up in the sixties. He wrote his first book about low-carb dieting in 1972, tho the Atkins Diet didn't really take off until the early aughts. Nora, of course, would be all over that. She loves her a fad diet.


	45. Chapter 44: It's A Nice Day For A White Wedding (reprise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allo! This one is fifteen pages. I finished it just an hour ago, amid cringing over this horrendous sunburn I got earlier. It's like the sun is also pissed off about quarantine and is damn well showing it.

Chapter 44: It's A Nice Day For A White Wedding (reprise)

**  
John was a nervous wreck. And he was not easily a nervous wreck.

Standing before the full-length mirror in the hotel room at The Breakers—which served as a dressing room—his hands shook as he tried to button his damn sleeves. Fingers suddenly made of butter, the mother of pearl fastener kept slipping from his grip just before it could slide into the little hole at his wrist. 

“Damnit,” he muttered when it did so again.

That got the Sport’s attention—not that his attention was necessary to be garnered; John had felt him gawking amusedly for five minutes—and, fully dressed himself in his own suit, a sort of khaki…thing with a blue tie and spats—pushed himself off the bed across the room, and fastened both sleeves while wearing an unabashed smirk.

Bender scowled. “I could’ve gotten it!”

“Right,” Sporto drawled. “In about a week with those butter fingers, Butterfinger.” 

“No one better lay a finger on his Butterfinger,” Josh cracked from a few feet away, parroting Bart Simpson in those Butterfinger commercials. 

The rest of the guys laughed, especially Ferris, who was actually eating a Butterfinger. 

A scoff. “At least I’m not dressed like a particularly flamboyant sheriff.” 

The Sport shrugged, unfazed. “The invite said ‘semi-casual’.” 

‘Whatever the fuck that means,’ John thought. Guests were dressed in everything from Palazzo pants to gowns. The ladies in heels were gonna have a helluva time meandering through the sand, though, granted, it would be funny. 

John himself had quickly traded in his original suit rental for a different model as soon as he understood that Claire would be okay. The first one he’d tried on the day his old man had done the unthinkable, and now considered it a bad luck sign. There was no way on God’s green Earth that he’d be able to look at his own wedding photos in the future and *not* instantly picture Claire’s broken, bleeding body being pulled out of that wreck. So, he went back to the same place and rented something else—this one black and looser fit, none of that double-breasted crap on this hot as hell day. The white oxford underneath was crisp and open at the neck, mostly because he despised that buttoned-up yuppie look with the weird sideways tie. How the hell could anyone *breathe* like that?

“You sure you’re not too drunk from last night, Johnathon Edmund?” Claire’s brother, dressed in a white seersucker suit that was kinda reminiscent of Colonel Sanders’, snarked. 

“I am.” Frye, rubbing his temples with his index fingers. Bueller patted his back with his chocolatey digits. 

John rolled his eyes. “I barely drank anything. I’m fine.” 

After getting drunk off his ass at the Bull when Claire was in the hospital, he was taking no chances. Damn, he was turning into a regular lightweight. 

Last night was his “surprise” bachelor party—one that, shocker, Allison had told him about a day before. He’d planned a kickass bachelor-o-rama for the Sport, so his friend had returned the favor for him. They didn’t rent any limousines, but they did hit up the Jiggly Room again; Purple Mountains Majesty remembered Brian and gave him another lap dance at half-price. The rest of them teased him for the remainder of the night. Then, they went deep into downtown and placed bets on two heavyweight boxers duking it out; John won fifty bucks. After that, he went with Sporto back to his apartment. Claire forbade him to see her the night before the wedding. For reasons. 

“Um, John? Don’t y—you need the tie?” Big Bri nodded with his chin toward the window sill where the red noose lazed, about to plop to the floor.

John glanced at it and sneered. “I fucking hate ties.” 

“W—well, I mean,” Brainiac cleared his throat. “Claire’s already all—allowing you not to wear shoes, so…” 

Bender stared down at his bare feet, sighed, and reached for the tie. 

“Thank God I’m not organizing this one,” Jockstrap, donning that same 1920s gangster-esque pinstripe suit, muttered. He adjusted the ridiculous brown trilby over his eyes against the sun’s glare through the window. “I’d wanna jump off a roof.”

They hadn’t hired a coordinator or anything. Like either John or Claire would stand for being told what to do. 

Before Bender could bite back a retort, there was a soft knock at the door to the hotel room. Josh, leaning against the wall closest to the door, stood tall and opened it. 

Laura Bender was on the other side, a small smile about her lips, pink with that glossy shit Claire liked. Her hair had recently been re-Farrahized and she wore a bit too much blue stuff on her eyelids, but she looked nice otherwise, if a bit dated. Her dress was a strapless lavender taffeta with a layered skirt that hemmed just above her knees. He didn’t particularly like that his mother’s boobs were pouring out of that low neckline, but whatever. 

His mother had insisted on walking him down the aisle. His lingering guilt over sorta-kinda blaming her for what happened, even unconsciously, made him reluctantly agree. 

“Well!” Laura exclaimed, smile widening. “Don’t *you* look handsome!”

John waved her off, though secretly, he was pleased. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Ma.”

“Ya even slicked back your hair!” she trilled, walking further inside. He automatically lifted a hand to his pomaded hair. He’d just pushed the front part off his face. “Ain’t used to it. You’ve worn your hair the same way since you were twelve. Used to drive me crazy that you’d never get a haircut.” 

The guys cackled. They could never get enough of hearing these embarrassing anecdotes about his childhood. 

As a teenager, he’d cut his own hair. Now Claire insisted on doing it.

Laura glanced at the face clock on the wall. “Almost time. You ready?”

John felt like he was going to puke. He very rarely got this nervous. But, fuck, now he was nervous. He swallowed harshly and nodded. 

“See ya out there, puppy!” Ty called, and John flipped him off on his way out. 

At the head of the aisle, he quickly undid the tie with a cringe and stuck it in the pocket of his pants. His ma looked at him and shook her head.

Laura took his proffered, slightly shaking arm, and they walked between two sets of white folding chairs. Not meeting anyone’s eye. He felt a bit like an idiot—he would’ve preferred some in-and-out thing—but this was for Claire, so he’d grin and bear it. 

The instrumental version of “White Wedding” was enjoyable, though. 

Sporto in his stupid khaki suit was next and came to stand beside him while the rest of the guys took seats in the peanut gallery. He and Claire had agreed that they’d only have a Matron of Honor and a Best Man. They didn’t need to do all the hoopla. And only their friends were here anyway. 

And Nora. Obviously Nora. She sat in the front on Claire’s side of the aisle, clad in an orange skirt suit and matching pillbox hat, trying not to scowl. She looked like a glowering, blonde Jacqueline Kennedy. 

He grinned when Dani, assisted by Sloane, “walked” down the aisle in her frilly green dress and frilly green headband. She giggled, clumsily throwing flower petals in every direction and shrieking “Da!” and her second ever word “flower”, which sounded like “forwah”. It was either “flower” or “forward”. He was guessing “flower” because she’d been surrounded by the stuff for days as they planned this thing. 

Allison was next, draped in a very un-Basketcase cheery yellow frock he was pretty sure she hadn’t chosen herself. Nor the daffodil behind her ear.

While he waited, the Cool Priest at his back, he felt a bit stupid just standing there on that wooden dais while twenty or so pairs of eyes looked up at him. He ached to do something; his hands twitched at his sides, and he shoved them in his pockets.

And then, the air changed, everyone glanced over their shoulders in unison, as if fucking rehearsed, and he wasn’t nervous anymore.

There she was, hanging off Rich’s arm, beaming from ear to ear in a knee-length white dress and one of those flowery crowns perched on her head. Her steps were slow, measured, so she didn’t fall over, but even as she concentrated, the bright smile remained, lighting up her whole face from the outside-in. 

The peanut gallery murmured, but he paid them no mind. All that was, was her. 

Claire was his sun, the light that pushed aside the darkness of his life. He’d come so close to seeing that light extinguished, but now, here she was. Brighter than ever before. 

When Rich kissed her cheek and went to sit down beside his wife, he’d never felt more certain about anything in his existence.   
**  
Claire Standish was nervous. And Claire Standish did not *get* nervous. 

“Nervous” led to perspiring and unsightly armpit stains. “Nervous” led to headaches. As a kid, a lengthy unit in her cotillion classes had revolved around keeping cool while under pressure. She was an expert at such by now. 

Alas, today proved to be the exception. Claire Standish was nervous. 

Ensconced in the hotel room that doubled as a dressing room, Claire, standing before the full-length mirror, smoothed down her bodice for the nth time that evening. Originally, the ceremony was supposed to take place at around two in the afternoon, but it was so freaking *hot* today and she didn’t want her guests to, like, drop into a dead faint. Thus, she pushed it back a few hours. Now, the sun was just setting and dropping below the soaring red lighthouse in the distance. The sky was alight with a menagerie of color—pinks, oranges, blues, and purples. It looked like a Monet painting. Or a postcard. 

She couldn’t really appreciate it, though, because she was so frigging nervous. Which was ludicrous, she knew. She was marrying the guy she’d been with for over six years, with whom she had a baby! Her mother wasn’t selling her off to some sultan she barely knew. 

But…still. The idea of all those pairs of eyes gawking at them had her feeling a little—a lot—wiggy. Another oddity. Claire generally loved attention. 

‘Maybe I should’ve taken him up on Vegas, after all…’

Popping into the Graceland Chapel and getting married by Elvis didn’t sound *so* bad now. 

“Claire, your floral crown is on backwards,” Megan said, coming up behind her to straighten the green and pink circlet on her head. She was much shorter than Claire, so she needed to stand on her tip-toes to do so, even in her heeled sandals. 

Claire missed being able to wear shoes like that. She hoped her leg would heal fully; she’d hate to have to throw away half her shoe wardrobe. 

She *must’ve* been nervous. Claire Standish never would’ve permitted herself to go out in public wearing something askew. 

On the edge of the bed in Sloane’s lap, Danielle gave a shriek and pointed to the little white basket she was to carry. “Forwah! Forwah!” 

Claire beamed and bent down to kiss her cheek. Her baby could always bring her back to reality. She sat there in her lace and cotton green dress, the billowing skirt almost covering her legs entirely, and matching green and pink headband. It was the baby version of the crown Claire was wearing. 

When she peered closely, she realized that Danielle’s tiny toenails were black as pitch. Claire scowled and shot a glare at Allison. “Ally! What did you do?”

Allison erupted in snickers. “Payback for putting me in this dress. I look like a walking sunflower.” 

“You look pretty!” 

The Basketcase scoffed, admiring her own chapped, unpainted nails. “You say tomato, I say tomahto.” 

There was a knock on the door, and Jackie went to answer it. Judging from the instant frown on her face, Claire figured it could only be one person. 

Jackie sighed and stepped to the left, opening the door wider. Laura, clad in a lavender cocktail dress with a ruffled skirt and big Southern Gal hair, smiled upon entering. John’s mother had come to see her a few days previous, and though Claire welcomed her readily, the tension betwixt the two Benders was patented. It wasn’t really a *furious* tension, Claire could feel that, but sadness and confusion and a hint of rage and irritation emanated from both—John the more ireful of the two. She tried to put things in his perspective, to stand in his shoes. She understood part of him blamed his mother, along with himself, for what had happened, even if he didn’t want to. In hindsight, Claire could see where the resentment came from, especially considering how he’d grown up, with *whom* he’d grown up. 

The crash was very traumatizing and almost succeeded in taking Claire away. She understood his and their friends’ antagonism. But she still felt bad. Laura was getting the crap end of the stick. 

While John went to work, Claire invited her to stay for lunch. Over takeout sushi—Mrs. Bender had never eaten sushi before; Claire was aghast—and cups of Sunny Delight, Laura haltingly confessed that she’d been to the jail to visit her husband. 

“Well, ‘visit’ may be too strong a word,” she mumbled, absently stirring the orange drink with her straw. “I just wanted to see him…see him where he should be after what he did.” She picked up her gaze and locked eyes with Claire across the table. “I haven’t told Johnny. He’d go crazy.”

Claire conceded that. Before the crash, John had been adamant about keeping Laura away from Jake, utterly convinced that merely glimpsing him now would set her back and possibly even throw her off her carefully balanced wagon. He was very worried that his mother, after years of bouncing in and out of sobriety, was now white-knuckling temperance. She’d been to state-sponsored, court-ordered rehab and John didn’t put much faith in the government. Not that she could blame him. 

“So…what happened?” she prodded when Laura went quiet. 

Laura’s cheeks swelled with air before she exhaled, just like John did, and leaned back in her seat. “He told me he knew I’d come. Honestly, it sounded like he ‘spected me to support ‘im. I told him straight out that I was filing for divorce, and that I should have a long time ago. He just laughed. It’s clear he doesn’t-a believe me, but he will when he gets served.”

Claire pursed her lips flatter. “Do you think he’d even sign?”

Laura’s gaze darkened and narrowed in the same vein John’s did when he was serious about something—which wasn’t often. “Oh, he’ll sign. He’ll have to.”

“Why is that?”

The narrow-eyed stare didn’t dissipate. In fact, if anything, it deepened. “Let’s just say that I have some *incriminating evidence* that links him to an old cold case.”

Claire cocked her head. ‘Old cold case?’ “Which one?” 

Laura sighed and pushed away her half-eaten Bento Box. “You ever hear of Sally Burckhardt?” 

The Princess stared at her soon-to-be mother-in-law in shock. *Everyone* who had ever lived in Shermer within the past few decades was familiar with the Sally Burckhardt case. It was the most infamous murder that had occurred in town, the notoriety stemming from it still sitting unsolved in the Shermer PD archives. In 1967, young Shermerite, Sally Ann Burckhardt, age 16, had gone missing one nondescript night in July. Following an extensive manhunt, her body was found beside a small creek in the woods, the ones just beyond the high school, suffering evident stab wounds. The case remained open and active for five years with no leads. A few suspects were questioned but ultimately cleared. 

She’d learned about it in middle school. The Sally Burckhardt case was renown not just in Shermer but the entirety of Lake and Cook counties. True crime circles in the Midwest loved dissecting the cold case. There was even a proposed documentary being shopped around. 

“*He’s* responsible for what happened to Sally Burckhardt?!” Claire exclaimed, her voice rising with each syllable. Wincing, she glanced at the playpen; Danielle continued sleeping peacefully. 

Laura shook her head. “Not directly. I don’t *think*, anyway. But I know one of Jake’s buddies dated her for a few months. They suddenly broke up...two days before Sally went missing. I always thought it was, well, weird, but I was pregnant with Johnny at the time. My mind was kind of everywhere and nowhere at once, you know.”

‘Boy, can I relate to that.’ Claire harbored her own tales of Pregnancy Brain. Like when she almost gargled drain cleaner instead of mouthwash. Or that time she left the milk in the bathroom and the house keys in the fridge. Or when she totally walked halfway down the corridor outside the apartment in her underwear. 

“So, I just took his word for it when he told me Frank—his friend—didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” Laura continued, briefly gnawing on her glossy lower lip. “I think I suggested Frank go down to the precinct to be interviewed anyway so the cops didn’t pin it on him, but Jake said that can’t happen ‘cus he was twenty-two datin’ a sixteen-year-old.”

The age of consent in Illinois was seventeen. This Frank would’ve gotten three years at least. 

“It was about ten years later,” John’s mother went on, tapping her finger against her chin. “When I found some of Sally’s things in the attic. Her watch. A wallet. A jacket with her name sewn right there in the label. I showed it all to Jake and demanded answers, but he hit me, as I should’ve assumed he would. Then, he warned me that if I cared about Frank—and his new wife, Angela—I wouldn’t say a dang thing. I still have Sally’s things. I, uh, took it all with me when I left Shermer.”

Claire shuddered; she couldn’t believe what she had just heard. “Laura, you have to go to the police anyway, whether he signs or not!”

Laura nodded, her lips downturned in what Claire figured—hoped—was guilt. “I know. I plan to. I’m just ashamed I sat on all this for so long. Sally deserves justice, poor thing.” 

That was three days ago. Laura hadn’t mentioned a thing to her son, but Claire was conflicted. She didn’t keep secrets from John, and she knew that he’d want to know this, his mother going to “visit” Jake in jail. She wondered if he had any knowledge of his father’s connection to an old unsolved homicide, but quickly decided he did not; he definitely would’ve told her *that*. 

“Oh, honey, you look so lovely!” Laura trilled, loosely holding Claire’s wrists in her hands. “Are ya nervous?”

“No,” she lied, just as the other girls replied “Yes”. 

Laura patted her hand. “Now, don’t you worry about a thing. Everything’ll go off without a hitch. Oh, I’m so excited!” 

Crouching at the knee before Danielle, she chucked the baby’s small, round chin and beamed. “Are you all ready for your big debut, dumplin’?” 

“Forwah!” Danielle screeched again, sifting her tiny fingers through the pink petals in her basket. 

Laura straightened. “Is she sayin’ ‘flower’ or ‘forward’?” 

“Pretty sure it’s ‘flower’,” Claire replied, one hand smoothing down her daughter’s wayward hair. “She’s been around them for days while we rehearsed.”

“She still hasn’t said ‘shit’,” Ally joked. “I’m disappointed.” 

Jackie scoffed and rolled eyes no longer hidden behind her glasses. She’d traded them for her rarely-used contacts today. That was why she kept scratching at her eyes. “It’ll happen. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were next.”

There was another knock on the door, and this time, Claire herself went to answer it. Her father stood on the other side donning a charcoal gray suit, red tie, and a grin. “You all ready, honey?”

Laura straightened and headed for the door. “That’s my cue. Our kids’re gettin’ married! Guess that makes us family.” 

Claire’s father smiled flickeringly as Laura nudged him with her elbow. His eyes said ‘This just occurred to me, and I’m not sure what to make of it.’

Megan stepped forward to straighten her crown one more time. And then, Claire grasped her small bouquet, took her dad’s proffered arm, and allowed him to lead her outside, the girls following close behind. 

The Breakers’ beach was all set up to host a wedding to Claire’s specifications. White Adirondack chairs flanked a black aisle runner broadcasting Freddy Kruger’s heavily scarred face—Claire hadn’t known Freddy Kruger aisle runners existed, but if anyone could find one, it was John—and someone on a Steinway punched out an instrumental version of Billy Idol’s “White Wedding”. Claire snorted at that. 'Apparently, it is going to be a "whoite weddoing".'

At the end of the aisle, a dais built of wood and painted white had been erected, a light, lacy canopy balanced on four wrought iron poles billowing overhead in the wind. The soft breeze carried the briny scent of the lake, which this evening was indigo and reflected the brilliant collage of colors swirling in the sky, and the floral one of peonies, Claire’s chosen flower. Father Bachman stood on top of a thin white carpet, clad in his vestments and lightly holding a copy of the King James Bible. 

And then, on the edge of the dais, his hands in his pockets, was John. 

‘He looks so good in that suit,’ the Princess thought to herself whilst Sloane helped Forwah Girl Danielle down the aisle. And he did! It was very “John”—loose-fitting, open at the neck, no evil tie. The white oxford offset the sandy tone of his skin. He’d even pomaded his hair, which Claire knew firsthand he *hated*. She, too, liked his chestnut locks down and free, she could sink her fingers into them, but every now and then, it was nice to actually see the planes of his face. John was a lot more angular than he seemed at first glance, with his curtain of hair in his face. 

She noticed that his hands jiggled in the pockets of his slacks, and Claire’s smile brightened. He was just as anxious as she was, and it was adorable.

When those puppy dog eyes she adored, the same ones in their baby’s face, met hers, his lips parted, and he got that bewildered, “I’ve just been sucker-punched” look. 

His expression quickly morphed into the smartass smirk she knew and loved. And sometimes found annoying. 

Today, though, the grin brightened his toffee-colored eyes, leaving them sparkling with mischief and reverence. 

Her father grasped her hands and kissed her cheek, mock-pointed at John, and claimed a seat beside her mother amid soft laughter. Her mother, who was watching the proceedings stone-faced and lips pursed. Claire was just relieved she wasn’t screaming and tearing the place apart. 

Father Bachman opened his bible and began an intonation of Corinthians, which Claire had insisted upon. That was one part of her childhood fantasies that she was adamant in seeing through, and John humored her—although he rolled his eyes good-naturedly. 

“We are gathered here today,” the father said after his reading. “Under the sight of God, to witness Claire and Johnathon—“

Beside her, John cringed. “Uh, John is fine, Padre.”

Laughter from their guests. Josh, flanking their mother’s opposite side in the front row, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, as if through a bullhorn, “Johnathon Edmund!”

John glared over his shoulder at her brother, causing more titters of amusement. Claire was smiling so wide, she thought her face would crack in two. 

Father Bachman cleared his throat, a smirk about his lips. “Very well. Claire and *John* in holy matrimony.”

More laughter. In Sloane’s lap, seated beside Ferris (who, she couldn’t help noticing, was ludicrously but hilariously dressed in a full tie-dye suit and neon green sunglasses at night), Danielle bounced up and down, babbling in a language only she herself could understand. 

The Father continued. “I believe each has written their own vows? John, will you go first?”   
**  
‘Shit.’

Andy could almost hear the oath squeaking past Bender’s lips. Dithering there with Claire and the Father, whom he called the “Cool Priest”, the guy looked a mixture of anxious, petrified, and “just been slapped in the face with a trout”. It was Claire’s idea to have them write their own vows, and John was willing to go along with whatever as long as he didn’t have to wear a purple velvet suit or something. But he’d all but panicked when Claire casually dropped that he needed to write vows. Bender wasn’t exactly a poet, unless one counted heavy metal vomit lyrics. 

So, Andy tried to turn Bender’s advice to him when he was in the same position on its head. But the dude still struggled, he said, because everything sounded like it “came from a fucking Hallmark card”. That wasn’t John. He wasn’t about schmaltzy sentiments. He just told the truth as he saw it. 

You know, when he wasn’t trying to get out of something or hoping to intentionally irritate someone. 

Four days later, Andy stood beside the burnout at the head of the aisle, a few paces behind, hands clasped before him and trying not to grin. He could feel himself failing in that endeavor. At Claire’s side, his wife stood in the same position, also looking like she was going to erupt in giggles at any moment. 

John cleared his throat, reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a crumpled sheet of lined paper. Andy observed whilst he read it over, rolled his eyes, and chucked it over his shoulder. 

‘Damn, I hope a seagull doesn’t think that’s food.’ 

Clearing his throat again, Bender twittered on his bare feet. Back and forth, back and forth. “The one I had prepared was saccharine and stupid and sounded like a ‘Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood’ monologue.”

There was more scattered chuckles, and Claire snorted through her nose, an accepting look on her face. Obviously, she had been expecting just this. 

He took a deep breath and continued, staring at the redhead gazing expectantly up at him. “So…know that anything I say now, I’m saying it because I I*mean* it, not because it sounds like something people say at weddings or whatever.” 

Claire nodded, her lips twitching.

Andy rocked on his feet—his *shoe-clad feet*, thank you very much—and barely stopped himself from whistling the “Jeopardy” theme as Bender organized his thoughts. The burnout shot him an annoyed grimace. 

Bender chuckled nervously—Andy could hear the telltale squeak behind it—and grasped Claire’s hand in his own. He stared down at it, at the ivory skin of her knuckles, as the wind ruffled their hair and the lace canopy above him. “You know,” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. Once again, Andy pursed his lips to keep from snickering. “When Sporto and Basketcase over there got hitched, they wrote their own vows, too. And I remember he kept fu—screwing his up, rewriting and erasing, rewriting and erasing and constantly pissing that none of it was good enough…”

That wiped the amused twist off Andy’s face. Not Allison’s, though. If anything, she looked all the more entertained, barking out a delighted cackle. Andy rolled his eyes. 

The burnout threw him a smirk over his shoulder; he knew exactly what he was doing, the bastard. 

“I got annoyed at his bellyachin’,” he went on, and Andy’s scowl deepened. On the opposite side, his wife was cracking up, one hand clutching her stomach draped in that very un-Ally cotton yellow gown. “So, I told him to just say what he loves about Allison.” A shrug. “And then I had a joint.”

More giggles from everyone—except Nora Standish, who sat there with her long legs crossed at the knee and her eyes narrowed behind the gossamer orange veil she wore. 

Even Andy had to chuckle, recollecting the day in question. His apartment had stunk like a wasteoid’s for days. 

He watched as Bender slowly shook his head, a small smile on his face, and picked up his eyes to stare into Claire’s. “I wish I can take my own advice. But…I can’t.” He squeezed the hand the rested in his. “Because…there are…*no* words in the English language that can accurately describe…what I feel when I look at you…” 

Claire’s smile upped the wattage to a genuine beam that steadily crept over her luminescent façade. Andy glanced across the insignificant expanse to meet Ally’s eyes. To her, he felt exactly the same way—and had, for many years. It was why he’d struggled so hard with his own vows. What did one say to the woman who embodied everything to you? How could that even be *described*? Words were just that—words, just as easily read impersonally in a book or a card or amid the closed captions on TV. They were only given real feeling, true sentiment, by the person behind them. And Andy had meant every syllable he’d recited to Allison that day. 

Ally locked gazes with him, and an identical smile bloomed across her cheeks that took his breath away. 

“And if there are,” he continued, that asshole smirk back on his face. “I don’t know them. Probably should’ve paid more attention in English class.”

The audience guffawed, Claire the loudest. Mrs. Standish’s lips, too, twitched through her many Botox injections. She quickly sobered, however, and folded her hands in her lap. 

Bender briefly glanced down at his bare toes, ones that Ally had tried to paint pink in his sleep at the apartment the other night and, upon his waking, received a foot to the face for her trouble, then back into Claire’s visage. He had sobered, all hints of mirth removed from his expression. “I—I can say this: before I met you, I, um, was on a path.” Another shrug. “And it wasn’t a good one. If I had never met you…I’d probably be on the streets. In and outta jail, like my old man. Selling to stay alive.”

Over John’s shoulder, Andy watched the Noracaine shift and scoff very quietly under her breath. Quietly—but loud enough for her husband and Josh to shoot her matching baleful looks. Richard’s more so. Josh mainly appeared stagnant. 

If Claire had caught her mother’s noise of derision, she showed no outward signs. Her smile turned softer, her dark eyes were shining. 

Beside her, even Ally looked moved. And it took *a lot* to move his wife.

“Now---“ Bender cleared his throat. The dude was *ner-vous*. From a few paces away, Andy could discern the beads of sweat dotting his forehead, and how the hand that wasn’t currently clutching Claire’s shook at his side. Andy forced a frown, attempting to reign it in—truly, he was!—but the burnout must’ve *sensed* Andy’s threatened snigger, turned to glower at him, and stuck the offending appendage in his pocket. “Now...it’s like I said, Claire, you’ve given me things I never thought I’d ever have. A home, a real job, Dani—“ 

On cue, the baby in Sloane’s lap threw her chunky arms in the air and cried, “Da!” 

Claire giggled and blew her a kiss as everyone else chortled.

John pointed to himself exaggeratedly. “That’s me. I am ‘Da’.” 

It was on the tip of Andy’s tongue to say ‘Make sure she’s not actually speaking Russian’, but now probably wasn’t the time to bust his balls. 

The after-party, though? All bets were off.

Claire pressed her glossy lips together and sighed. “I can’t believe she hasn’t said ‘Mama’ yet.”

“She will. Right after she says shi—“ Bender glanced at the Cool Priest. “—uh, shitake mushroom?” 

Allison hid her resounding snort in her yellow nosegay. 

Growing pensive once more, he seamlessly picked up where he left off before Danielle interrupted. “I feel stable in my life for the first time in…ever. And all of that—it’s because of you. I have Dani because of you. I have a place to live…that doesn’t suck because of you.”

Andy instinctively searched for Mrs. Bender in the audience. She was smiling, but there was a hint of melancholy around her eyes that—almost—tugged at him. Almost. 

“Hell—uh, I mean heck.” Another quick regard of the Cool Priest, who only chuckled. “I was motivated to get a job so I could take you places. You know, that weren’t just the McDonald’s drive-thru or the Dumpster behind the 7-11. Or Vernon’s office.”

That last caused the Princess to duck her head, and Andy had a very acute knowledge as to why. Judging by Bri’s cringe among the spectators, so did he. The Sport, the Basketcase, and the Brain met each other’s stares and simultaneously shook their heads. 

The Criminal went on. “And that became a real career. I never gave a crap before, about any of that. I felt like…well, everything sucks and is hopeless anyway. Why should I bother?” He exhaled deeply, grasped both Claire’s hands, and squeezed her fingers. “*You* made me wanna bother, Claire. You…fixed my world just by being in it.”

Andy and Allison caught each other’s eye in unison and smiled softly.   
**

The last thing Allison Clark ever expected was to feel *stirred* by anything that came out of John Bender’s mouth. The guy wasn’t exactly Whitman or Wordsworth. She could count on her fingers—just her fingers—the number of English and Lit classes he’d ever attended in senior year. It was a miracle that he’d managed, somehow, to graduate at all. Claire must’ve asked her father to pull some of those strings of his. 

But, standing there beside Claire and listening to his vows, the extremely honest words flowing forth from his vocal cords, Ally genuinely felt herself going soft. As she caught her husband’s eye across the Freddy Kruger aisle—ol’ Freddy was in a groom’s top hat and tails; she had no idea how John had managed to find that or where and she was kind of jealous—her entertained smirk melted into one of affection and nostalgia for her *own* wedding, which had been just a few months ago. 

At Bender’s side, Andy winked one of his gorgeous baby blue eyes, and Allison’s smile broadened. 

Claire, meanwhile, was sniffling and catching a tear before it trickled down her cheek and ruined her carefully applied makeup. “Screw it,” she croaked, reached amid the depths of her bouquet, and threw the plucked piece of paper over her shoulder. 

There was another round of mirth from the captured audience. Allison mentally lambasted them both for polluting. 

Claire, too, cleared her throat before speaking her own soliloquy, followed by a deep breath in. “John,” she began, her small hand in his much bigger one. “You said that you were on a path…before me. Well, so was I, and it also wasn’t really a good one. My life was laid out before me from the moment I was born. I would graduate from high school, go to an elite university like Stanford or Yale, marry some frat guy with a connection, a CEO’s son or an investor’s nephew or something, right out of college, pop out his kids while he cheated on me with his secretary and drink myself into a stupor.” 

Allison’s dark eyes shifted to Mrs. Standish in the front row, who shifted imperceptibly and uncomfortably. That was, after all, what Claire’s mother had done—married an ultra-successful industrialist right out of college, sat back and popped out his kids while Merlot-ing herself into oblivion. She didn’t know if Richard Standish had ever been unfaithful to Nora, but Ally wouldn’t be surprised. Those two did not get along *at all*, but Nora would never ask for a divorce because she’d signed an iron-clad pre-nup that would ensure she’d lose everything but the clothes on her back if she moved forward with proceedings. Claire had only found out about the pre-nup—drafted by her Grandma Jane, skeptical as she was of her son’s sudden love and his claim of “falling in love at first sight” that turned out to be nothing but lust—a few years ago, when her mother accidentally let it slip after one too many glasses. 

John chuckled. “That’s specific.” 

“I’ve seen it so many times,” she replied, sighing and wincing. “If you’re a girl from a certain tax bracket, that’s what’s expected of you--*all* that’s expected of you. And that was to be my fate, I guess. For a long time, I never really questioned it. Why would I?”

Ally knew what she *meant* to add was “I was raised in it” but refrained. Claire would not what to test the Noracaine on today of all days. 

“And then I skipped class to go shopping one day in junior year,” Claire went on, wince transformed into a beam. “And…I met you. You drove me *crazy*.”

John laughed, not at all repentant. Not that Allison would’ve expected anything else. 

“You drove us all crazy,” the Princess amended. “Including Vernon. Especially Vernon. I was…intrigued in spite of myself. Especially after you lit a flame on your boot.”

“I can still do that,” he replied, raising his chin. 

Claire looked skeptical. “Last time you tried, you nearly burnt the building down.” 

“I’m just out of practice.” 

Giggling, she squeezed his hand locked around hers. “It was only then that I realized…I wasn’t obligated to *do* anything. To go to a fancy college. To marry someone from Harvard. To get a totally useless degree and spend the rest of my life loathing my very existence. You saved me from that.” Her smile broadened, and she lifted a hand to swipe another rogue tear eking from her eye. “I live life my own way. And you gave me the courage to do that. Now, I have basically everything...when before I realize that I had nothing of consequence.” A bob of the shoulders. “I’m a college graduate. A mom. About to be a wife…to someone I only *tell* myself I can’t stand sometimes.” 

Additional chuckles resounded from John and the audience. On Sloane’s lap, Danielle clapped her hands together. 

“You still drive me crazy,” Claire added with a further giggle. “But it’s the best kind of crazy.”

Allison cackled, and Claire colored when she, presumably, understood the double entendre in that remark. Bender, of course, was loving it. He looked like the cat that got the cream. 

The Father stepped forward, vestments trailing behind him, and finished the vows. The two exchanged rings, which her husband provided with a tickled “Here ya go!”, and all was sealed with an all-in, gleeful kind of kiss Ally had never glimpsed between them before. 

And that was it. They were married.

Allison’s gaze slid toward Brian and Jackie in the second row and grinned. ‘Two down, one to go.’

**  
The punch had already been spiked. That much was evident. After innocently pouring some of the red stuff into a plastic cup and taking a sip, Brian instantly recognized the tang of Smirnoff. Allison, the Vodka Queen—turned out, she hadn’t been lying about that!—coerced him to try a Grey Goose and pineapple once at his 21st birthday bash. It’d tasted like sweetened battery acid, and all the next day Brian had spent bowed over the toilet. 

That was not a memory easily forgotten, not to him. As soon as the stuff touched his tongue, the reminder came roaring back. The nasty, nasty reminder. 

Cringing, Brian Johnson spilled out the rest of his “punch”—‘Oh boy, was that a punch.’—in a nearby trashcan and chucked the cup that followed. 

He should’ve known that Bender would spike the punch at his earliest convenience. Didn’t matter that it was his own wedding. On the contrary, that would’ve made him all the more determined. 

Coming up beside him, Jackie—beautiful in her orange crinoline and elaborate hairdo—started to ladle some of the cursed punch in her own cup. Brian flattened a hand over the rim before she could. “I wouldn’t. John’s gotten to it.”

Jackie grimaced and dumped the contents of the ladle back inside the crystal bowl. “I’m guessing it tastes like a brewery.”

“M—more like a vodka distillery.”

His girlfriend scoffed. “I’m shocked.”

Turning around, his back braced gently against the concessions table, Brian smiled fondly. The group had moved to the boardwalk for the reception, since, ya know, dancing in the sand was not ideal, especially if one was wearing stilettos, as many of the womenfolk here seemed to be. A live band rocked on a few paces away, currently strumming along to and belting out Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven”, the only song, he knew, that Claire and Bender had agreed on. Well, he supposed they were both Benders now. He briefly wondered if he could get away with calling Claire that, but quickly nixed the idea. She might give him an Indian burn. Claire had impressive Indian burn skills. 

Above them, the only light—other than the full moon and the twinkling stars—emanated from erected old-timey, Edison-approved gaslights. Claire’s idea. He wasn’t going to start guessing where it came from. Since this was a small wedding, with only the scantest amount of guests invited, there were just two or three circular tables erected; the remaining few sat on picnic tables already provided by the boardwalk. Picnic tables covered with white satin cloth and set in sterling silver utensils and crystal goblets but still, picnic tables. 

On the hastily constructed black and white marble dancefloor were all his favorite people. Allison and Andy, both looking hilariously uncharacteristic in their wedding attire. Eleanor and Stubbie, who were using the moment to not-so-subtly make out in a corner of the floor. Sloane and Ferris, the latter exaggeratedly mouthing the lyrics and serenading his fiancée. Ty and Megan, who had never looked more *couple-y* than they did tonight, laughing and swaying to the music. Even Cameron had brought a date, a brunette he vaguely recognized from high school. 

The only “adults” in attendance were Claire’s parents, Dr. and Mrs. Devers, Mrs. Clark, the Takaharis, and—

“Excuse me, boy” came a hackneyed growl from beside him. 

Brian winced and shifted further away from the punch bowl. Mrs. Lowing, John and Claire’s elderly—and crotchety—neighbor stepped up next to him, filled her cup, and slathered another piece of chocolate cake on her plate. It had originally been shaped like Godzilla breathing fire on a more classic white wedding cake, but now only Godzilla’s legs remained. 

Neither Claire or Bender particularly liked Mrs. Lowing, to put it mildly. She was an elitist, old fool who came from decades of family (and perhaps dirty, according to rumor) money, which was how she was able to afford to live in a place like Housely as it was. She was infinitely xenophobic in favor of the 1% that dominated all the wealth and power in the U.S. Truly, she made Nora Standish look like Mother Teresa at times. Brian had found himself ensnared in her claws on a few occasions, none of which ended pleasantly. For him, anyway. 

She loathed John, that much needn’t be said. She seemed to have taken a shine to Andy, though. She was forever opining about his “lovely, neat hair”. 

Claire had reluctantly invited her after their neighbor caught her tiptoeing past her door carrying an armload of invitations she was sneaking downstairs to send to invitees. When Mrs. Lowing far too innocently inquired about her own invitation, Claire mumbled something about “the surprise being ruined” and stuck an extra invitation under her door. 

The two were shocked when she really showed up. She despised John, but she loved Claire. And cake. That must’ve won out. 

“S—sorry, Mrs.—Mrs. Lowing,” Brian stuttered. The speech impediment always grew worse around those he wasn’t comfortable with. And his mother.

Mrs. Lowing sniffed and walked away with her nose in the air, the tails of her odd kimono-inspired gown dragging on the wood of the boardwalk. 

Jackie giggled. “That woman is something else.”

“At least she’s not, um, making a sc—scene or anything?” Brian always tried to look on the bright side. 

His girlfriend gazed out onto the dancefloor, a soft smile on her face. “Her presence doesn’t seem to be hindering our friends.” 

With her chin, she gestured out to the middle of the square, where the newlyweds—‘It’s weird to call them that.’—were swaying to the music like…well, like a couple. Their foreheads were touching, and wide smiles stretched across their faces. For once, John didn’t appear to care how the warm stance would tarnish his “badass Criminal” reputation. 

His friend rarely—very rarely—lowered his carefully cultivated mask around anyone but Claire, he knew. Not that Brian could blame him, really. Living with someone like his father—heck, even like his mother—required some thick skin and a set of just as thick armor. Tonight, though, none of that seemed to matter. Especially not when “I’ll Be There” started up and Sloane brought the baby to them, all three locked in a rocking embrace. Brian blinked. It was like watching a movie with familiar characters but a totally alien plot. 

The warm fuzzies building up within Brian Johnson abruptly evaporated when, laughing, John materialized by his side and smushed a plate of cake in his face. 

“John!” Claire, still loitering on the dancefloor holding Danielle, cried. Her free hand rose to rest itself on her hip. She narrowed her eyes, trying, he figured, to look admonishing, but the amused pull of her lips was belying. 

Jackie broke up in laughter as Brian slowly cleaned his cake-soiled face with a washcloth. John continued to chortle, bent over at his waist like sticking cake into Brian Johnson’s mug was the funniest thing. 

‘Maybe it is,’ he considered, poking his tongue out to taste the detritus. ‘Mm. Buttercream.’ 

“Sorry, Brainiac,” Bender laughed, obviously not at all sorry. He straightened and pushed at his shoulder in jest, nearly sending Brian sprawling over the table. “You were lost in La La Land somewhere. It was just too easy.” 

Jackie was still guffawing. As was pretty much everyone in attendance. Allison was particularly tickled. Brian cleaned the remaining cake off his person. “I—I’ll give you pass this time, John. Be—because it’s your wedding day.”

“Damn right it is! Woo!” Whooping, the burnout threw up his arms, forming twin “rock on” symbols with his hands, and meandered (a tad drunkenly?) back to the dancefloor. 

Brian’s girlfriend plucked the washcloth from his hand and wiped the rest of the debris from his face, grinning. “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance, Curly?” 

Technically, that scene in the first “Three Stooges” movie was pie, but whatever. 

Brian was not a dancer. He remembered his prom, where, at the most, he just sort of…stood at the edges of the dancefloor and snapped his fingers. He thought maybe he brought back the Handjive once during an Elvis song. His date abandoned him for Larry Lester after that. 

But if Jackie wanted to dance, then, damnit, he’d dance! Grabbing her hand, he led her out onto the dancefloor just as “Home Sweet Home” blared over the huge speakers. 

When Jackie rested her head on his shoulder and pressed her soft body against his, Brian grinned like a doofus. He could get used to this.   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: the 80s and early 90s were...weird fashion-wise. Everything-wise, but especially hair and fashion. You just gotta watch "St. Elmo's Fire"  
to confirm that. Big shoulder pads and that mullet-adjacent haircut they gave Ally Sheedy that was popular then (Deborah Foreman in "Valley Girl" also had one). And Alec is wearing just that crazy sideways tie. WTF, Yuppie Culture?
> 
> Note 2: The Sally Burckhardt case is made up, tho I based it loosely on a cold case out of Chicago. I didn't want to allude to anything totally real because I don't want to be disrespectful. 
> 
> Note 3: John can still not curb his language, though he certainly is trying around a priest.
> 
> Note 4: Cameron's date is Randi from "Sixteen Candles" xD


	46. Chapter 45: Honeymoon Not in Vegas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all! My birthday was a few days ago, I am 33 and I cannot believe it. I'm sure it was just last week that I was fifteen and writing AU Buffy fanfic on ff.net. Which I have since deleted off my profile because it makes me cringe. This is a light(ish) chapter before the shitteth hit the faneth. By which i mean the trial of Asshole vs. the State of Illinois.

Chapter 45: Honeymoon Not in Vegas

John felt like he was a balloon, light as air, floating up to the heavens. Or the ceiling. Wherever the balloon happened to be, he supposed. 

Immediately following the ceremony, a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and the jitters dissipated. In place of the tension was just glee. He was on high, and he wasn’t even stoned! A little drunk, maybe, but…

He hadn’t realized that putting a ring on it would leave him this fucking euphoric. It was like…LSD, ‘shrooms, and ayahuasca mixed together with an added touch of the smoothest Swiss chocolate. 

Dang, he was kicking himself that he hadn’t asked her eons ago. He let his fear and uncertainty get in the way—yet another courtesy of Daddy Wart-bux. John had let the asshole dictate his decisions for far too long, way after he’d left Shermer, even. Ironically, it took his ma, who]d spent his entire childhood and adolescence supplementing the personal Hell he experienced daily with her on-again-off-again sobriety, to kick-start his ass in gear. 

Which was why he felt horrible whenever he looked at her now because he’d added blame on her shoulders for what happened to Claire—and even though he hated himself for it, the nagging insistence was still there in the back of his mind that, if Laura hadn’t come into their lives, Jake wouldn’t have bothered. 

It was proving a tough notion to shake. When regarding his mother now, first came a wave of guilt, then a crest of anger, until, ultimately, the wave broke and his conscience ate at him some more. Another mental vicious cycle, a projector, he couldn’t turn off. 

But tonight was his wedding night. And he was not going to think about any of that. Tonight, he was going to have some fucking pleasure and peace…before he had to deal with his father’s trial. He would be testifying, of course. In normal circumstances, John *loathed* dissecting what Jake had put him through for eighteen years, especially in detail, but if it would help Claire’s case, he’d gladly spill his guts.

Tonight wasn’t the night to ponder his impending turn on the stand, however. Tonight was for him and Claire. 

About two hours into the party, Claire successfully coerced him into yet another slow dance, this one to a Duran Duran song performed by the badass band he’d hired at her request. Rich was paying, so of course they’d play whatever the bride wanted. John was definitely no Duran Duran fan, and he was annoyed to have to listen to this crap—until Claire placed her lips at his ear and suggested they “get out of here”. 

Her warm, sweet breath and soft, swollen lips on his skin caused his slacks to instantly grow a wee bit too tight. A lot too tight. 

Nodding like a dog about to eat a nice, juicy bone—‘Ugh, bad analogy.’—John grabbed Claire’s hand amid her giggles and tried *very hard* to sneak off, back toward the hotel where they had a room booked. But the band’s lead singer somehow managed to catch them—they were not being paid to watch them at all times!—and announced their departure. John scowled while the rest of their friends threw them knowing, pointed smirks.

“Wear a condom this time!” Ferris shouted through cupped hands. Beside him, Sloane—with the kid in her arms—playfully whacked him. 

John’s glower deepened. Claire ducked her head in embarrassment. To his right, the Noracaine—his new mother-in-law, holy crap—gasped like she was shocked. ‘We have a kid. Does she think Dani miraculously materialized via immaculate conception?’ 

John flipped him off while Claire blew a kiss to the kid. Dani grinned and pretended to catch it with clumsy fingers. Being left behind for a bit did not unnerve her anymore. She knew her parents would return. 

The cabin they’d rented was *a lot* bigger than the one they’d stayed in a few months previous. Elevated on four stands, the place came with not just a patio but also a deck beyond the abode, one of those private Jacuzzis, a grill, and a small garden. And that was just the outside. 

John fumbled with the key for a moment until he finally managed to open the door. When he walked in, he only belatedly realized that Claire lingered in the doorway, a wry smile on her face and her hands about her hips. 

“What?” he asked, truly bewildered. Had he forgotten something on the beach? ‘Crap. Now I’ll have to pay for this suit.’

Laughing, Claire tapped her bare foot against the deck, shivering slightly in the night air. “You’re supposed to carry me over the threshold.”

John’s brow wrinkled. “I am?”

“Duh,” she replied with an eye roll. “Don’t you watch romcoms?” 

“No,” he snorted. As if he’d be caught dead sitting through one of those things. On purpose, anyway, or without the enticement of after-movie sex. “You should know me better than that, Princess.”

His new wife—‘Jesus, I’ll never get used to that.’—crossed her arms over her still quite ample chest. “That’s right. I forgot. You only watch *manly* movies where things explo—Oh!” 

Before she could complete her critique of his preferred film genres (mostly action, sci-fi, and porn), he carefully swept her underneath her knees, hauling her surprised form in his arms.   
Wrapping her delicate arms around his neck, John carefully cradled her healing leg, ascertaining that they were *far* away from anything she could smack it against. The warmth emanating from her body seeped through the thin cotton of his oxford, the definite outline of her swollen breasts pushing into his chest, and the sudden jolt of “MUST HAVE NOW” sent directly to his loins nearly caused him to drop her. 

In his embrace, Claire giggled while he goggled at the barefaced opulence this particular suite offered. All of the furniture was a sort of dark mahogany trimmed in gilt. The sofa and lounge chairs in the seating area were like props directly out of a Victorian-era movie. There was even a fucking chaise, like a fainting couch for ladies who wore their corsets too tight. The walls were sponged in a sort of blood red hue patterned with hand-painted roses and *solid gold* leaves. Beneath his bare feet, the sumptuous beige carpet was *cashmere*. He was quite familiar with the sensation of cashmere, Claire’s preferred material, because naturally, she would favor clothes knitted of a fabric that contained “cash” in the name. Soaring above them, smack dab in the middle of a high, exposed-beam ceiling, one of those chandeliers winked, the cut crystal so abundant, it momentarily blinded him. 

“Holy shit,” he murmured as he slowly set Claire back on her feet. “Uh. This room is a bit bigger than the other one.”

He felt her watching him, plainly amused at his flabbergasted façade. “My father paid for it.”

“Of course he did,” John said, still staring agog at the chandelier. ‘I wonder if it’ll make me go blind if I look at it too long. Like an eclipse. An expensive eclipse.’ 

Claire chortled, set down her small clutch purse and single peony out of her bouquet—the rest she had thrown over her shoulder, as per tradition, which Jackie had caught; Sporto was probably still ribbing the Brainiac—atop a mahogany desk just off the front foyer and walked through another door on the right. 

“Take a look at this!” her voice echoed a second later, and John managed to tear his gaze from the mesmerizing chandelier to follow the sound.

This was apparently the bathroom. And what a bathroom! The shiny, black tiles were crafted of pure marble, the walls painted that same blood red, sans rose pattern. The ceramic sink was embedded in a long mahogany counter, the faucets 24 karat gold. There was a freaking *bidet* beside the john (he’d discovered years ago in the Standish estate that bidets were not fountains bizarrely placed in the bathroom—the hard way). But the centerpiece of the bathroom was obviously the bath, an extra-deep, claw-footed tub fashioned of delicate off-white porcelain. The terrycloth towels dangling nearby had their names stitched into them, somehow. 

John did not want to consider how much this all must’ve cost. He’d have a secondhand coronary. 

While he was gawping, beside him, Claire leaned into him and knocked his hip with hers. “Think we can both fit in that?” she asked in that sexy as hell throaty tone of hers she only broke out when they were alone. And she was in a, ahem, particular mood. 

Aaaand there went another jolt. Right to his pants. ‘Do not pass Go, do not collect two-hundred dollars.’ His blood was going to start boiling soon. 

“Yes,” he sort of squeak-croaked in response. Claire laughed, and he cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I mean, uh, I think so?”

Taking his hand, she led him back out into the main room, a tad disappointed that they weren’t going to test out that tub’s length and width just this moment. He instantly riled when they traversed the living space, he trailing behind her like a frigging hungry puppy dog about to chow down on a tasty rib bone, and she led him into the expansive bedroom. 

The bed itself was a monster four-poster dressed in a red cashmere duvet, comprised of the same dark mahogany as the rest of the room’s furniture. There were prints on the walls, some kind of framed black and white still-life photography he didn’t understand, like hands washing in a sink and an egg cooking on cement. Weird. In the corner was an armoire with a big ass television sitting inside, a stereo on the shelf below it. And…were those mirrored ceilings?!

Score! ‘Those will come in handy. No pun intended.’ 

ZIP. Another lightning bolt shot directly inside his boxers. 

John smothered a groan. At this rate, fun time would be over before it could begin. 

Sometimes, he hated being a guy. Ladies did not have to worry about, eh, “finishing” too quick. 

“Wow,” his Princess remarked, twirling in a slow circle. “This is nice. Oh, look at this view!”

John moaned again, louder this time, as she dashed beyond his reach and out the sliding glass doors to the raised patio. A mite painfully, he waddled after her outside, where she stood at the edge of the platform, arms braced along a wrought iron handlebar and a wistful, contented smile on her face.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she breathed, gazing out at the picture-perfect view of the starlit Great Lake, the long wooden peer jutting into its waters, the iconic red lighthouse perched on the end. He’d always joked that the edifice kind of looked like a particularly raging erect penis, but under the light of the full moon, it just added to the ambiance. 

The view was pretty, yeah, but she was much prettier. In her soft white dress and flowery crown, with the breeze pushing back her fragrant hair, she resembled an Old Hollywood ingénue in a Frank Capra movie. 

John couldn’t help himself. He was in a damn precarious, eh, “position”. Palming her lower spine, mere inches above her lovely behind, his impatient self said, “It is. But, you know, Claire…we can admire the view *later*.”

Much later, if he had his way. And he usually got his way in this department. 

Claire tittered beside him and ducked her head, a light dusting of color in her cheeks. He never knew why she reacted this way in regards to their sex life—it wasn’t like they’d never gone there before; obviously, Dani existed and, despite what Nora may’ve wanted to believe, she definitely hadn’t appeared in Claire’s womb via immaculate conception—but he wasn’t complaining. Whether an act or not, the bashful virgin thing turned him on like all hell. 

A hint of wickedness in her smile, she took his hand again and led him back inside—which *also* turned him on like crazy. Jesus, their wedding night was going to be less of a “night” and more “two minutes of such” if he didn’t calm the hell down. 

Claire lifted the circlet off her head and laid it on a bedside table. Watching her fluid, gentle movements, John was suddenly as anxious as he’d been that first night oh so long ago. He didn’t exactly know where the nerves originated from. He just knew that the butterfingers were back as he struggled to undo the myriad buttons enclosing her dress. 

“Damnit,” he growled. “Claire, don’t get me wrong, you look beautiful in this thing, but…there are too many fucking buttons.”

Her ensuing giggle was music to his ears. 

Finally, he managed to unfasten the last button and slide the material off her creamy shoulders, revealing his redheaded goddess in a white thong and matching bustier that very nearly had him exploding right there. 

Claire slid his black jacket off and began undoing the buttons of his shirt whilst he fumbled with the absurd amount of stays that held the bustier together. When she was bare-chested before him, John was preoccupied staring at her bountiful boobs while Claire lightly bit her lip—there went another ZIP—her hands tentatively hovering—over her chest, her exposed stomach, her thighs. If he wasn’t already familiar with the expression on her face, he’d swear she was trying to drive him batty. 

“Cherry,” he started, his tone gently admonishing, reaching out to halt the innocently erotic exploration of herself. “Stop. Okay?”

Pursing her lips, she lowered her arms to her sides when he let go of her wrists. “I feel fat.”

John sighed. Ever since she’d given birth to Dani, and of course in the eight months before that, she regularly fretted over her body—what it looked like, how it had changed post-kid, if he was still attracted to it (like *that* was ever in question). She did not vex as often as she once had, but there continued to be these moments, instances of his Princess seeming very un-Princess-like—not the confident, sensually innocent sexpot he had known for five of their six years, but rendered uncertain and self-conscious. *This* incarnation of Claire wasn’t *her*, and it made his heart twinge seeing her feel insecure about herself. 

“Claire, you’re *far* from fat,” he cautiously argued.

John knew from previous firsthand experience that this topic required diligence and patience—two virtues he didn’t exactly have in spades. In the past, his blunt frustration sometimes resulted in tears—not even anger, just out-and-out, consummate weeping—which he *hated* being the source of. John often wished that she could somehow see herself as he saw her. ‘Where’s Doc Brown when you need him? I’m sure he has a gadget that can do just that somewhere.’ 

Claire gazed down at herself, one side of her mouth curled. “I’m still not back to my pre-baby weight…”

“I don’t care.”

“And I have all these gross stretchmarks,” she went on, pinching her right hip.

Exhaling once more, John took both her elbows in his palms and stared into her face, trying to appear as earnest as possible. “Claire. I. Don’t. *Care*. None of that matters to me.” He shrugged. “You see ‘gross stretchmarks’, I see evidence of you carrying Dani all that time. If I bother to look at all. And I’d have to look *hard*.”

Claire gnawed on her lip again, and John had to bite back a moan. Standing there mostly naked, her perfect breasts on display, she was driving him wholly mad. “What if I can’t fit into my favorite jeans again?”

“I’ll buy you another pair.” Hell, he’d buy her the whole fucking Calvin Klein store on Michigan if she wanted. He sure as shit couldn’t afford it, but he’d figure something out. 

Ultimately raising her head, the grimace morphed into a half-smile. “You really don’t care?”

John huffed. “I cannot think of anything I care *less* about. What kind of shallow asshole do you think I am, Cherry?” 

Claire wrapped her arms around his neck. “…you’re right. Sorry.” And then her luscious lips were on his, and he promptly forgot what they’d been talking about. 

Scrabbling at the remainder of his clothing, a new fire in her depths that John was quite familiar with, he told himself, lambasted himself, to take things slow with her tonight; she was still healing, and he didn’t really think a quick wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am would do for their wedding night—much as his loins were screaming at him “WANT-TAKE-HAVE”. 

Amusedly halting her wandering hands, both of which were about to rip his undershirt off, he reminded her, “Slow.” She nodded and kissed him, and he lowered her to the huge, First Class stateroom on the Titanic four-poster bed. 

John had never quite grasped the difference between sex and “making love”, as those super-cheesy romantic movies Claire dragged him to called it. The Princess swore that there *was*, indeed, a difference, but said difference flew over his head. Wasn’t it all naked fun time? The end result was the same no matter what one called the act, right? 

Now, only *now*, as the minutes turned into hours and she was slowly clawing at the skin of his back and arching her hips and whimpering beneath him, as her inner thighs caressed his hips and waist and her long, thin fingers dug through his hair, as he laved at just that spot on the side of her neck he knew for certain drove her crazy, and as he squeezed her hand in his while she gasped his name, he at last understood that difference.   
**

Claire shot up in bed with all sorts of horrible images dancing in her head. In the darkness, she blinked repeatedly, trying to clear her vision of the disturbing, distressing mental pictures, but they just wouldn’t vaporize. Another nightmare, this one featuring her baby and thus leaving the Princess feeling like she was going to throw up. 

No, not feel—she was *definitely* going to throw up. Throwing the cashmere duvet off her shaking body, Claire clambered out of bed and all but ran across the living room and into the bathroom. The lovely bathroom that now reeked of puke as she fell to her knees, dunked her head inside the bowl, and bowed to the porcelain god. A few times. 

After rinsing her mouth out with a complimentary packet of Listerine, she dragged herself back to the bedroom, shoulders slumped with fatigue and fear. Her groom remained asleep in bed, softly snoring. Claire ached to return to his side, back in the embrace in which she’d fallen asleep, but even though her exhaustion, she couldn’t coax her body into another round of slumber. She was too worked up, too shaken. Lowering herself on the edge of the bed, Claire sighed and cupped her face with both hands. 

The dream had started out just as events played out in reality. She ran her errands, did some yoga, ducked inside the sandwich shop. She was, too, donning the same clothes she’d worn that day—a pink Madonna t-shirt tied at the hip and black leggings. One of her cute Lacoste sweatbands. 

The major difference? Danielle. Bizarrely, her baby hadn’t been anywhere in sight until just the moment her Dream Self appeared outside the sandwich shop. Claire watched herself in ever increasing horror, knowing that she couldn’t do anything to stop the impending disaster. In the nightmare, her Dream Self was bent over Danielle’s carriage adjusting her blanket—when she turned around, eyes wide, as the Dodge careened toward them. Unlike in reality, however, she had plenty of time to observe Jake in the driver’s seat, smiling crudely, coldly. The car seemed to hit its target in slow motion as Dream Claire just *stood* there, frozen whilst the ugly Dodge ran both her and her baby down in cold blood—

Claire raced into the bathroom again and promptly rid her stomach of any of that fried chicken dinner from the reception that remained. Once she rinsed her mouth out again, she felt so weak, so shattered, she nearly crawled back to the bed. 

Perched on the edge of the mattress, Claire let out an involuntary sob and raked her fingers through her hair with shaking hands. 

‘Oh, God, I’m turning into a basketcase. And that’s not even my job!’ 

Behind her, the snoring abruptly halted with a sort of confused honk-croak. “Claire?” 

In response, Claire tried to swallow past the thick lump in her throat but was rewarded with an answering sob and a stinging throat for her trouble.

There was the sound of fabric on fabric and the creaking of a body crawling over the mattress, which she now knew was a spring. John appeared beside her, (barely) dressed now in his boxers, and lay one hand flat on her back. She felt his warmth through the thick hotel room terrycloth robe she wore. She’d hastily thrown it on right after the first vomit session. She felt weird walking around without clothes on. 

“Everything all right?” he asked tiredly, his words thick with interrupted sleep. 

Claire winced. She hated waking him up. He’d spent so long being wary of sleep, of succumbing to his exhaustion just for an hour or two before that asshole returned home and physically dragged him out of bed. Only just recently had he found the wherewithal to jolt himself out of the habit of waking up multiple times a night.

Her nod was a bit too expedient, giving herself whiplash. “I’m fine. G—go back to bed, John.”

John, her stubborn as nails Criminal—and now her *husband*--ignored that directive like he hadn’t heard it at all. “You’re not fine. Your hands are trembling.” He sniffed. “And you have puke in your hair.”

Claire grimaced. Stuffing her shaking hands in her lap, she contemplated jumping in the shower at 3 AM. “I knew I should’ve cut my hair shorter…” 

Scooching closer to her, he wound a comforting arm around her waist. Claire instantly settled into his bicep, as though her body lacked the strength to keep itself upright. “What happened?” he asked, palming her hip. 

“Just another nightmare,” she breathed into his neck. Upon his urging her to explain further, she sighed and lifted her face from his shoulder, not meeting his concerned eyes. “It…it was another Jakemare, I guess. It started out just…like a replay of…that day. But then...suddenly, Danielle was there in her carriage and I could see him in the Dodge…”

Claire briefly slammed her eyes shut. In her mind’s eye, she could hear the screeching of metal, see her baby’s cherubic, crying face just before… 

Her eyes shot open. She somehow managed to keep her upchuck reflex at bay this time, but only just. 

John, too, winced, his eyes widening for the briefest second. Claire hated herself. The last thing she wanted was to put that image in his head, too. It would haunt her for the rest of her life. 

His arm tightening around her waist, he turned to more accessibly face her. “Jesus, that’s…” Upon Claire’s involuntary sob, he shook his head, as though snapping himself out of something, and refocused. “Babe, it was just a nightmare. *Just* a nightmare, okay? It didn’t happen that way. Dani’s fine.”

Claire was nodding and returning to her previous position against his arm before he finished his thought. He’d meant the words to be soothing and she loved him for it, for trying to comfort her (he did not consider “the comforting thing” his most adept field), but all it did was serve to remind her how batshit her mind had become. That her subconscious would somehow conjure *that* horrifying scenario… 

She felt John staring down at her red head, which apparently smelled like vomit. “All it was, was a…manifestation of your worst fear. That’s what nightmares do, right? They’re fucking assholes.”

The Princess breathed a huff of laughter. ‘He’s right about that. They *are* assholes.’ 

He continued, rubbing one hand up and down her terrycloth-covered arm. “He’s behind bars. He can’t hurt you anymore. All right?”

“Or you,” she replied, her face in his neck muffling her words. 

“Or me,” he agreed. “Remember what you used to tell me? ‘Don’t let him win’. Don’t let him *win*, Claire.” 

Claire nodded once more, as best she could in her position, and straightened. He was right. She couldn’t let him control her. She couldn’t let him *win*. 

It was only now, though, that she understood how difficult that idea was. She’d always thought, with that gentle command, that she was rallying him, soothing him. She did not realize how “not letting him win” was a Sisyphean endeavor. Rolling the boulder up the mountain only to have it crash back to Earth near the top. 

They climbed back under the covers. Claire rested her head on his chest, closed her eyes, but wouldn’t see sleep until dawn broke.  
**

They spent two days at The Breakers in Kenosha before returning to Chicago—on the new bike John impulsively purchased at a Harley Davidson dealer not far from the hotel. Claire had wanted to kill him when he rode it back to the place; they were planning on taking a train back, and he knew Claire did not exactly relish having to ride a seventy-plus miles with the wind smacking her in the face. But, hell, he hadn’t splurged on anything since attaining that promotion. He *deserved* that Harley. It was his wedding present to himself. 

Yep. That’s how he justified it, anyway. 

True, Claire had dug riding on the back of his bike in high school, but that was just around the neighborhood (and once or twice into the city), along residential roads. The whole drive back would require zooming down the I-94 E and all of the fun that came with riding on the highway—toll booths, the stink of exhaust, bugs in your face. But, *dammnnn* this was a nice bike. And used! All shiny chrome and blood red leather. ‘Badass.’ 

She was pretty pissed when he showed up with it, but he made it up to her. A few times.

Rich had gifted them a certain allotment for the wedding and hotel extras to use as they saw fit. So, first they tried out that private Jacuzzi—where he’d “made it up to her”—and then ordered some of the most insane offerings on the room service menu, including caviar pizza (Claire’s favorite—everyone loved pizza, even richies, but they had to money-up that shit first), a truffle hamburger the size of his head, and this huge ass sundae with *edible gold leaf*. That alone cost four-hundred bucks. A four-hundred-dollar sundae. John could’ve had an aneurysm. 

Claire further ordered hot stone massages—John originally thought the idea of laying rocks on his spine kind of…weird, but the massage turned out to be pretty damn sweet…aside from his masseuse, Olga, a very large, quite scary Ukrainian lady with hands that looked not unlike Christmas hams—and facials (*that* was weird; he was never doing that again—although his skin felt as smooth as a baby’s butt), and they capped off the night testing out that claw-foot bathtub. It definitely had enough room for the both of them. 

They spent so much time in there, the water began to turn and his fingers were all wrinkly. Not that he had any complaints whatsoever. 

After they had their “fun”, he plucked the battered copy of one of those romance novels with Fabio on the cover she favored and read scenes aloud for shits and giggles—and to discover what she found so engaging. The end results were hilarious. 

“And so, Lord Roderick Destrier, Duke of Kenilworth, took his new bride, Miss Amanda Hudgens, now Lady Destrier, in his sturdy embrace, bent the lovely former maid over his arm, and breathed, ‘*Now* you may dust my bedroom, Lady Destrier!’ before enclosing his lips over her sweet, puckered mouth. Thus, that is the story of Lord and Lady Destrier, Duke and Duchess of the Great House of Kenilworth in the Yorkshire countryside’—Jesus, Claire!” he laughed, for probably the twentieth time since beginning this endeavor, nearly dropping the ten-year-old tome in the cooling water. 

On the opposite side of the tub, Claire ducked down a bit, her collarbone immersed in the lavender-scented bubble bath she’d insisted on pouring in. He was gonna stink like a fucking garden for a week. “What? They’re fun!”

John snorted, closed the book, and dropped it on the floor beside the tub. “We have very different definitions of ‘fun’, Princess, and mine does not include Fabio in bloomers.” 

Claire splashed him. “Yeah, *your* idea of fun entails blowing out your eardrums at a heavy metal vomit concert.” 

He shrugged. Granted, that *was* his idea of fun. One of them, anyway. 

As for the rest, he was happy to perform a demonstration with her. Which he did. For the fifth time that day. 

When they rode home the next morning, John felt pretty awesome in his leather jacket, Harley rumbling beneath him, Claire at his back. She complained about her hair and the wind and the smell of gasoline, but he could tell she was digging the ride. She lay her head against his back, and he went all soft and stupid. 

Arriving home a bit after midday, the first thing Claire did was check the attached bags to make sure they hadn’t fallen off, her expensive crap splattered on the highway somewhere in Northern Illinois. Then, he used to Audi to pick up Dani from Bueller and Sloane’s. The Trans-Am wasn’t exactly baby friendly.

When he drove into Shermer and Bueller’s massive house—which his parents had left to him and Sloane as a wedding present; his sister had the pool house, but she *loathed* having to pay rent to her brother now—he saw him and Sloane on the front lawn playing with Dani in a purple paddling pool patterned with giraffes. The suit he’d put her in emblazoned Wayne Newton’s disembodied head on the front. 

John shook his head and ambled up the circular driveway. 'Richies and their crazy, super-long driveways.' 

“Yo, Bueller,” he greeted as he drew near. 

Ferris glanced up, over his shoulder, and grinned. “Well! If it isn’t the newlywed.”

John rolled his eyes whilst Ferris hummed the theme to “The Newlywed Game” and gazed down at Dani gleefully splashing in the pool, alternately smiling and chewing on a rubber ducky. “Why is she wearing a Wayne Newton bathing suit?” 

Bueller shrugged. Sloane just guffawed. 

About a half-yard away, Bueller’s sister, Jeanie, lay stretched out on a lounge chair, her curly dark blonde hair tied behind her head. A bottle of tanning oil stood beside the lounge, and she loosely clutched a mirror fan near her face. John quirked an eyebrow. “Careful, Jean, or you’ll turn into a human Slim Jim.” 

Jeannie only acknowledged his presence with a raised finger. John barked a laugh. Jeanie Bueller was a bitch, but a funny one. 

Sloane lifted the dripping baby out of the pool, wrapped her in a tiny towel, and passed her to John, along with a diaper bag. This, too, featured Wayne Newton’s head on the front and played “Danke Schoen” when it opened. “We bought her some new clothes and toys! And there’s some chocolate pudding in there.”

Chocolate pudding? Shit, he was going to eat that himself. 

“Sloane here got a wee bit too excited about toy-shopping.” Ferris wrapped an arm around his fiancée’s shoulders. “Methinks she’s yearnin’ for her own Dani soon.”

Sloane merely colored. John gazed up, up, up at the enormous Bueller abode. “Gee, I wonder where you’ll put it.” 

He brought the kid home and put her down for her afternoon nap. In the master bedroom, Claire was asleep in the middle of the bed. John smiled a bit, caressed her forehead, and flicked off the lamp before leaving the room, softly closing the door behind him. He was relieved that she was getting some rest—she needed it. The closer the trial ultimately drew, the more frequent her nightmares seemed to manifest. It was growing scarcer and scarcer that she slept through the night. And it was all his fucking shithead father’s fault. 

The man had spent years mentally and physically torturing him. He was learning to live with his ghosts. But now, after years away from Shermer, the same fucking asshole was haunting his wife. 

John walked into the kitchen and eyed the small calendar on the fridge. Two weeks. Two weeks until that fucker was finally served his just desserts. He would gladly help serve it to him.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: The Kenosha North Pier Lighthouse stands on the end of a long ass pier jutting into Lake Michigan. It was built in 1906, and, yes, at certain angles, it does kinda look like a giant erect penis xD https://www.visitkenosha.com/Things-To-Do/North-Pier-Lighthouse I've never actually been to Kenosha, or Wisconsin in general, so I had to look that up here. All I knew about Kenosha before was that it was a home for one of the original AAGPBL teams, the Kenosha Comets 
> 
> Note 2: "WANT TAKE HAVE" is Faith Lehane's credo, beside her catchphrase "Five by five". 
> 
> Note 3: According to an old episode of the "Fabulous Life" about the Brat Pack I watched for research, caviar pizza was Molly Ringwald's favorite at Spago, served up by Wolfgang Puck himself. Kinda makes me laugh. She was a teenager; teenagers love pizza more than life (if the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles didn't lie to me), but she was also a rich as hell teenager so...caviar pizza. There's also a solid gold leaf sundae at Serendipity 3 in NYC. It costs a solid grand, and it's served with a 24K spoon and cut crystal dish! '90-era inflation would make that about 400 bucks.
> 
> Note 4: As a teenager myself a million years ago, I spent a lot of time after school in the public library next door doing my homework and shit. Also reading. Like every cheesy romance novel with Fabio on the cover offered in the paperback section. They were prevalent in my school's library, too, really raunchy shit by Sandra Brown and Nora Roberts and even "Forever" by Judy Blume, which may have inspired my sexual awakening. We had no banned books at that school, they did not give a crap. "Whatever, let those little shits read what they want." This was in the era before Kindle. Now I can just go on Amazon, click a button, and I have every George R. R. Martin book at my disposal instantly. Thank you, future. 
> 
> Now I be headin' to HBO Max to watch Titanic for the 800th time. Sayonara!


	47. Chapter 46: You Can't Handle the Truth! Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! *C.C. Babcock from The Nanny voice* Here is the first part of The Trial. I considered just making it one long chapter but...I think it would be easier reading broken up.

Chapter 46: You Can't Handle the Truth! Part 1

August 6, 1990—the starting day of Bender vs. the State of Illinois, to be conducted at the Cook County Courthouse. 

The day had started so normally, Claire almost managed to forget what the date was—almost. The tear-off day calendar atop her bedside table wouldn’t permit this. She sighed, feeling a mite nauseas, reluctantly ripped off the “August 5” entry, and padded into the bathroom to take a shower. She’d been awake for nigh on two hours now. 

Once done, she dragged herself back into the master bedroom and lackadaisically riffled through her expansive wardrobe for something “trial-appropriate”. In pretty much any other circumstance, Claire enjoyed “looking the part” when she was required to dress a certain way—a tweed skirt suit for substitute teaching, a fifties-style housewife circle dress for baking, an ultra-fabulous gown for galas. But today…she would’ve preferred her pajamas or a trusty pair of sweats. If she had to do this, she wanted to be comfortable. 

Blowing her bangs out of her eyes, Claire halfheartedly reached for a black and white houndstooth skirt suit and a matching pair of black flats. She did not feel confident enough to don her beloved pumps yet. 

While she was styling her hair and applying some makeup—a swipe of mascara, blush, and some fire engine red lipstick; Claire *really* did not wish to bother today, but she felt odd in this super-expensive Ann Taylor suit without the proper war paint—very abruptly, John’s excited voice rang through the air from down the hall. “YES! HAHA! I did it! Screw you, you didn’t beat me!”

Screwing up her nose, Claire recapped her lipstick and trotted down the corridor barefoot. John, who’d been awake for over an hour, stood in front of the completed electronic swing in the living room, arms akimbo over his head, an expression of triumph on his face. He was humming “We Are the Champions” quite loudly. 

Claire crossed her arms. “What’s going on?”

John turned to regard her, grinning brightly. In his hand, he still clutched that same Philips screwdriver. “I did it! I got the thing workin’!” He gestured widely, proudly, to the mechanical, swinging apparatus with a flourish, then spun to face it. “Hear that?! I beat you, you sonofa bitch!” 

Claire’s eyes roved over the mechanical swing—stopping on the overhang, where a distinct paper packet lay that read HOW-TO on the front. 

Wry, her gaze returned to his. He was now fisting a hand over his head and whisper-roaring like he was a rock star in a crowded stadium. “Finally read the directions, did you?”

That caused John to frown and lower his arm, as she knew it would. “I did not! You insult me, Cherry.”

Sliding the packet off the overhang, Claire held it up for him to see clearly. “Then why are they out?”

Her new husband compressed his lips, his eyes flickering minutely to the corners. She knew this look. This was his “I’m caught but will never admit it” stance. “Coaster. I needed a coaster.”

“There’s no drink on it, John.”

Laughingly, John shrugged into himself and shoved his hands deep in his jeans pockets. “…in case I wanted one. You know I always have a beer when I’m building somethin’.”

“Uh huh,” she drawled, snickering, then spun on her naked heel and went back down the hall to collect the baby. It was time for her morning feeding. 

Afterward, she changed Danielle’s diaper and got her dressed, and brought her back to the living room. John switched the swing off while Claire buckled her into the seat, then turned it on again. 

He grinned. “See?! It’s a work of art.”

Claire winced as the back of the swinging seat smacked into the wall behind it—over and over and over again. Danielle, too, looked confused and annoyed at the sound of crashing plastic against plaster. “John, it’s too close to the wall. The seat keeps banging into it.”

John scowled. “I am *not* taking this thing apart again. Here.” 

Pausing the rocking motion of the powered swing, he cautiously pulled the whole arrangement forward by its steel legs. “There. That’s better.”

Danielle’s perplexed visage melted into one of delight, and Claire’s heart soared watching the large, mostly toothless smile cross her baby daughter’s little face. Bending at the knee to be more even with her, she cooed, “You like your new swing? It’s not really new. You got it when you were a month old, and now you’re nine!” 

John folded his arms over his chest. “Thanks, Princess. There’s no one who can make me feel as good about myself as you can.” 

Claire laughed and kissed his cheek. Her husband turned and walked down the corridor, grumbling about having to change. And that was when Claire recalled, again, what day it was and what they had to do in—she checked her watch—two hours.

She spent the next ninety minutes trying to keep busy. If she was preoccupied, her mind wouldn’t have the time to further consider today’s trial, right? 

Right. 

The newly married couple had to leave for the Cook County Courthouse by 1:30. Claire anxiously bypassed the time running household errands—vacuuming, dusting, feeding the baby. She even took the time to make her own pureed apricots with the CuisineArt Megan had bought her for her baby shower. 

Too soon, however, 1:10 rolled around, and the door buzzed. Claire swallowed and crossed into the foyer to answer it just as John ambled into the living room, muttering and pulling at the damn dirty tie he was being forced to wear. He couldn’t exactly attend a trial in jeans and a band tee. Much as he’d have liked to. 

Pulling open the door, a beaming Eleanor Reynolds and a slouched Stubbie greeted her on the other side. Allison’s sister had volunteered to care for Danielle today; everyone else was to attend the plea. Claire had called around near tears begging until Ally ultimately asked her older sister to help out. She *so* did not wish to leave the baby alone with Mrs. Lowing again. The last and only time, the old woman had returned her with a circumspect drawn-on mark on her forehead and stinking of onions. 

“Thank you both so much for watching her,” Claire expressed her gratitude for the nth time, leading them through the living room. 

Danielle couldn’t exactly attend the trial herself. Crying infants were not really conducive to due process. 

Eleanor waved one tan, manicured hand. She’d recently returned from a weekend job in Florida. “It’s really not a problem. I love little babies!”

Stubbie, on the other hand, reflected clear anxiety all over his face. Claire had to bite back a giggle. A nine-month-old child intimidated him more than climbing the Shermer water tower to spray-paint “SAVE FERRIS” across the front. “Uh…has her, um, diaper been changed?”

Eleanor, to his right, rolled her light eyes. “Steve, infants can go through a half-dozen diapers a day.” 

To this, Stubbie’s lightly tanned complexion bleached a noticeable few shades whiter. Claire didn’t bother to squelch the laughter now. 

“I just changed her,” Claire confirmed. “She should be good for a bit. Her food is in the cabinet just above the sink—“ 

“Yeah,” John interrupted, still tugging on the tie as he walked toward them. “Don’t mistake the baby food for Cherry’s weird Beluga caviar from Mariano’s.” 

The Princess crossed her arms. “It’s not weird! It’s good!”

Her husband raised an eyebrow. “It’s fish eggs.” 

“You’d like it if you tried it.” 

John made a show of sticking out his tongue and shuddering. Claire rolled her eyes at this exaggeration. “No thanks. You’ll get me to eat those French snails before your Russian fish eggs.” 

Stubbie nodded in sneering agreement. “No caviar for me, either. Never did like it much.” 

Eleanor traversed the room and gently lifted Danielle out of her playpen. “Are you ready to have fun, sweetie?!” 

“I hope her idea of ‘fun’ isn’t spewing red, white, and blue all over my Levis. They’re new,” Stubbie grumbled, eyeing Danielle as though she was one of those fountains that spat out water—only without the water. 

John snickered and futzed some more with his tie. “Say sayonara to those Levis, Jockstrap.” 

Pursing her lips, Claire reached up to meddle with the cotton-blend fastener herself, loosening the knot at his throat. John rubbed his Adam’s apple with a grimace. “Wow, oxygen! I was forgetting what that felt like.” 

Fifteen minutes later, Claire was giving Eleanor and Stubbie the rundown. The list of pertinent phone numbers was on the fridge under the Bart Simpson magnet. She needed to nap in an hour. If she wouldn’t fall asleep, play the cassette tape in her Fisher-Price radio; it was in the nursery. Extra diapers were underneath the changing table. Remember to use talcum powder and wet naps! If she soiled her clothes, just change her into something cool; she got overheated easily. 

“And if you want to take her out for a walk, use the stroller, not the carriage,” she finished, gesturing to the folded-up pink and gray one-seater Josh had purchased for her as a wedding present. “It helps with her alignment. Oh, and also—“ 

“Claire.” Behind her, John tapped his watch with a wry twist of his lips. “We’re gonna be late. I think they get it.” 

Eleanor kissed the baby’s chubby cheek. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, Danielle?”

Danielle’s response was to pull on the shiny diamond necklace the blonde wore. 

Stubbie still looked as if he was going to throw up before the infant had the chance to. 

Heart pounding beneath the red silk blouse she wore, Claire leaned in and pressed a peck to her baby’s forehead, then, with slightly shaking hands, grabbed her black Yves St. Laurent clutch purse off the mirrored coffee table. John told them that they’d be back by the evening and led her out the door. 

And thus commenced Day One. 

*  
The Cook County Criminal Courthouse was a towering, columned structure with reedy, narrow windows and an intimidating set of stairs. Technically, this was the 18th District Courthouse—the 18th comprising the Near North district where Claire and John lived, and included Millennium Park, near where the crime had taken place—but most Chicagoans still called all of the twenty-five district courthouses the Cook County Courthouse, lo though the original, completed in 1893 after a delay due to the Chicago Fire, had been sold a few years previous and converted into an office building. Cook County Courthouse just rang more…intimidating. The Cook County Courthouse was the site where nine players of the 1919 White Sox had been tried for attempting to throw that year’s World Series! The Cook County Courthouse saw many a murder trial, including the infamous Leopold and Loeb case! 

As Claire stared up, up, *up* at the soaring edifice, the words “18th District Courthouse” emblazoned atop the cement and limestone overhang in block capital letters, she experienced a flash of “What the fuck am I doing here?” Claire had always been a sort of amateur true crime buff—it was one of the few things she had in common with Ally; they’d sit there dissecting documentary after documentary, voicing aloud their own theories—and had viewed many a case being tried at just this place. It was surreal to be standing here before the very lofty staircase she had seen a multitude of times0 on TV…but only ever glimpsed out the rearview mirror as she drove past it. 

Now, here she was, about to participate in a trial of her own. Oh, the case was officially called Bender vs. the State of Illinois, but she was aware that most of the prosecution’s argument revolved around her. 

Along with her houndstooth suit and blouse, she wore a thicker, padded cast around her leg at her mother’s insistence. She swore it would “help” the jury make the right decision and garner Claire extra sympathy. Whatever, she’d only put it on because Nora wouldn’t let up. The woman exemplified the phrase “pick your battles”. 

“Kinda surreal,” Allison, beside her, voiced Claire’s own thoughts whilst she, too, gawped up at the courthouse building. 

Absently, Claire nodded in agreement. “It’s intimidating.” 

Allison glanced at her out the corner of her eye and scoffed. “You’ve faced down a rampaging Dodge. You can conquer a measly courthouse, Standish.” A pause. “I mean, Bender. Standish-Bender?”

The Princess rolled her eyes, but snorted in amusement anyway. She and John had filled out their marriage license at the clerk’s office the day after they arrived home. He had physically winced signing his whole name, and Josh teased them the entire ride back to Housely. “Well, *Clark*, just Bender, please. ‘Standish-Bender’ is such a mouthful.”

“Right,” the Basketcase agreed. “’Sides, your maiden name always sounded like a sneeze. No offense.” 

Claire frowned but, thinking about it for a second, nodded in accord. “Standish” kind of *did* sound like a sneeze. 

Andy and John and Brian and Jackie came to stand beside them. “You, uh, r—ready, Claire?” the Brainiac asked, gripping his girlfriend’s hand in his. 

Jackie pulled off her square, thick-lensed glasses with her free hand and cleaned them on the end of her black blazer. She looked a bit like a lawyer in her own right, draped in a black Gucci knee-length skirt and matching blazer, tie-neck black and white blouse patterned in polka-dots, and classic red pumps, both of which she stepped out of upon glimpsing the courthouse. “Those steps don’t look heel-friendly.” 

Allison, too, stepped out of her Prada shoes. She looked as though she was playing the part of an old-timey lawyer in a long black dress with a ruffled white collar. She was carrying a leather briefcase, as well. What was in it, Claire couldn’t begin to imagine. Probably blank pieces of paper. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn these things.”

Inside, the lobby of the courthouse was all mosaicked, marbleized tile, velvet seating, and cherry wood paneled walls. To her right, John gazed around himself, agog. “This is the fucking courthouse?! It looks like a four-star hotel.”

Andy glanced askance at him. “City courthouses tend to look like this. Not that you’d know that, *Criminal*.” 

John scowled, almost pouting, and Allison cackled. Claire’s husband had never been arrested before, despite the “fuck the system” reputation he so carefully cultivated. 

Her family, as well as Laura, were here already, waiting outside their designated courtroom for them. John’s mother was also set to testify for the prosecution in addition to herself, John, and Ty, who’d borne witness to Jake’s abuse during his friend’s childhood many times.

“Darling!” Claire’s mother trilled, lifting herself out of her chair and bending down to straighten the cast around her leg. “It looks too out of place. There.” Straightening, Nora stared into Claire’s face. “How are you feeling? Are you ready?”

“I’m fine, Mother,” she replied, though “fine” was, at the moment, the last thing she felt.

Her father gripped her upper arms and smiled. “You’re going to do great, honey,” he placated, as if this trial were one of those ballet recitals she’d danced in as a kid. 

Twenty minutes later, her name and the trial’s case number were called by a nasal-sounding woman wearing a gray suit. “Case #9011-80008, Jacob Bender vs. Claire Standish and the State of Illinois, you’re up.”

The paperwork had been filed before the wedding, so the court had to use her maiden name. John squeezed her hand, she took a deep breath, and inside the courtroom they went.

Claire’s hands shook as she approached the left-hand side, where the prosecutor was muttering to himself whilst he stood over a dark oak table, on which was fanned out papers plucked from her legal file. Dark-haired and middle-aged, he was engulfed in the artificial light emanating from the green desk lamp. This specific D.A. lived not far from her old home in Shermer, in the suburb of Winnetka. How did she come to know this? Well, Claire had known the man—as well as the rest of his family—since childhood. His wife was the catalyst of many of her mother’s complaints, and she could take or leave their seven children, as well. Peter McCallister, husband of the oft Nora-maligned Kate McCallister. The man was a loving, if somewhat absent-minded, husband and father, but he was ruthless in the search for justice. His reputation preceded him. Thus, Claire was relieved to have not only a dedicated lawyer on hand but one she happened to recognize as well. 

“Ah, Miss Standish,” the prosecutor began with a flickering smile. “I mean, Mrs. Bender, yes?”

Claire could feel the unconscious beam pulling at her lips. She hadn’t quite gotten used to her new name yet, both signing it and hearing it. Being addressed as such never failed to trigger a grin. “That’s right, Mr. McCallister,” she confirmed, shaking his proffered hand with her bejeweled one. The diamond winked in the sunlight pouring in through the windows. “Thank you for this.”

Peter McCallister waved one Rolex-adorned hand as though swatting the words away. “No thanks necessary, just doing my job. Please take a seat; I’ll be with you in a moment.” Beneath his breath, he grumbled, “Kevin got in trouble at school…again. Got to call my wife.” 

Claire compressed her mouth to keep from giggling. Mr. McCallister’s youngest son, Kevin, was forever getting into it. The boy was only eight and had already been suspended twice. ‘John would be proud.’ 

Behind her, the galley began to fill up—on her side, anyway. While the benches on the left were gradually being claimed, the right side of the room—the defendant’s side, Mr. Bender’s side—remained depressingly barren. Not having any outside support, she’d almost feel bad for him if he wasn’t such a horrible person—which was why he was here in the first place. The only people attending for the defendant were a middle-aged couple. Claire idly wondered if the husband was whom Mr. Bender had covered for all these years. She couldn’t imagine anyone else caring enough, not for Jake Bender. Even his own brother had skedaddled as soon as he was old enough. 

The first row was occupied by her family—her parents, of course, her brother, and John. As her husband, he had preferential seating, not that her father would’ve stood for anything less. Laura sat beside him. Her Aunt Theresa was also here, though she already looked like she’d rather be getting her hair done. Claire didn’t know why she was here at all; her mother must’ve guilt tripped her. 

Her friends and family friends claimed the rows beyond. Everyone from Dr. Devers and his wife to the other Club members to Ty and Megan. Sloane, Ferris, and Cameron were swishing through the courtroom doors now, Ferris donning a pair of red, thick-frame glasses she knew he didn’t need and Sloane in a pair of khaki slacks. Cameron wore a cobalt gray suit, but underneath peaked the bright red of his Gordie Howe jersey.

Her inner anxiety must’ve shown on her face as she was sitting there because John reached an arm over the gate that separated the floor from the galley and squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll be okay, I promise, Princess.” 

Laura beamed beside her son, but trepidation reflected in her eyes and on the worry lines about her complexion. “We’re gonna finish this, sweetie.” 

Claire nodded a bit too vigorously to be believed and lay her head back against the chair.

Mr. McCallister returned a moment later, an aggravated expression on his face that he quickly concealed when Claire, his client, caught his eye. Not far behind him, a stone-faced thirty-something man in a black pinstripe suit and wire-rim glasses strode purposely to the table on the right. Mr. Bender’s attorney, and he looked like he brokered no nonsense. Claire gulped, feeling ill, but Mr. McCallister took the seat beside hers and smiled reassuringly. Or what she assumed he figured was “reassuringly”. 

Five agonizing minutes later, a cop in that same beige uniform escorted a man dressed all in orange—no, not a man, a monster. Jake Bender appeared a bit worse for the wear, even more so than usual, more so than when she’d glimpsed him last, safely behind a pane of bulletproof glass. The skin of his complexion was sallow, yellow, and bruised, as though he’d been part of multiple altercations. His dark hair, the same shade as John’s, was spotted with more gray patches. There were evident deeper grooves around his mouth and in his forehead. And he’d lost weight since being in the clink. 

Yet, the same cool eyes and overly confident expression remained on his washed-out face, an infuriating little smirk about his wormlike lips. The officer in beige wordlessly unlocked the silver cuffs binding his wrists and ankles, then bade him sit down beside his attorney. 

Throughout this process, that smirk never left his mouth. When his cold, dark orbs met hers, she could’ve sworn the warm color in the irises had deepened to a flat black, as lifeless as a stone. 

Claire had to physically restrain herself from shaking. One look from Jake Bender, one glance at his person…it brought everything back. She was in her nightmare, hearing the echo of the screeching car, the metal on metal, her baby’s cry…

She snapped out of it at John’s light pressure on her right hand. But he was not looking at her. Indeed, he was glaring at his father even as he attempted to comfort her, eyes stormy and narrowed. If Jake produced a square of red, she had no doubt that her husband would go charging. 

Out one of a side door near the bench, a bailiff presented himself and addressed the court. “Case #9011-80008, Jacob Bender vs. Claire Standish and the State of Illinois. The Honorable Judge Marshall Stevens presiding.” 

Following the bailiff was another man Claire recognized, an old school friend of her father’s, Judge Marshall Stevens. Draped in the traditional black robes of the judge’s position, Judge Stevens climbed into his seat and banged the gavel once. “Thank you, please everyone take a seat.”

How her dad managed to secure Judge Stevens for this specific trial, Claire had no idea. Nor did she particularly want to know. 

Along the westernmost wall perched a jury of twelve—men and women, old and young, of all different creeds. They observed the trial with heretofore unreadable expressions, their numbers taped to their shirts. 

Judge Stevens nodded down at Claire, his visage mostly impassive but containing a hint of a smile. “Ms. Standish, how are you feeling?”

Claire cleared her throat, somehow both appreciative of and uncomfortable with the familiarity between herself and the man who’d be presiding over the trial. “I’m all right, Judge Stevens, thank you.”

Behind her, Nora made a sound of derision. Her mother hadn’t wanted her to answer that way, it seemed. 

The judge inclined his head. “Good to hear that. We were all pulling for you.”

Claire’s answering smile was flickering. At that precise moment, her leg began to throb, and it wasn’t even raining outside. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. 

“We’re here today to debate the case of Jacob Bender vs. Claire Standish and the State of Illinois. Mr. Bender is accused of leaping the curb outside of CJ’s Sandwich Shop on 15th and intentionally running Claire Standish over. Mr. Drake,” Judge Stevens began, sitting fully erect in the bench; his tone brokered no room for nonsense, either. “How does your client plead?”

This “Mr. Drake” fleetingly caught eyes with his client, then slowly rose to a standing position. “Not guilty by reason of temporary insanity, Your Honor.”

All around the courtroom, corner to corner, on both sides of the galley aisle, spectators expressed shock and surprise via outraged murmurings. Even the lone couple on the right side of the room supporting Mr. Bender looked taken aback. Claire’s mother gasped audibly—both, it seemed to Claire, out of genuine bafflement and exhibition---her brother and father, with their matching ivory complexions, went red in the face. Laura’s hand lay across her mouth, her eyes spanning left to right. Allison and Andy and Brian and Jackie exchanged worried looks. Ty clenched his jaw, and Megan rested a calming hand on his bicep. Ferris declared out loud, “What?! That’s outrageous!”

As for Claire herself, her eyes broadened in their sockets, and she felt all the more nauseas. She did not require *any* reflection about any temporary insanity on Jake Bender’s part. From the stories John had told her…

No one looked more enraged than her husband, though. John rose halfway, fists clenching tautly at his sides. He said nothing; he only glared at his father with the fire of a thousand suns reflected in his orbs. 

Mr. Bender, for the most part, remained stoic. But Claire managed to catch the flickering gleam he sent his son, and John all but flew out of the front row. Only her father’s hand around his arm held him back. 

The judge cracked his gavel twice. “Order, order! Everyone remain seated.” When the courtroom quieted and everyone was seated again, Judge Stevens gazed directly at the monster. “Mr. Bender, you *do* realize that a plea of temporary insanity is quite difficult to prove.”

Jake Bender conferred with his lawyer, whispered in his ear. Mr. Drake nodded and straightened once more. “My client knows this, Your Honor. We’d like to proceed.” 

More mutterings of dissent. Claire was feeling sicker and sicker by the minute. In the chair beside hers, Peter McCallister comfortingly pat her shoulder. 

Judge Stevens banged his gavel again. “Order! Order in the courtroom, I say! Mr. Bender, I presume that you have deliberated this with your councilor since you’ve been remanded. If this is the course you wish to take, this court accepts it.”

Once again, Mr. Drake spoke for his client. “It is, Your Honor.” 

“In that case, the court will meet again tomorrow morning,” the judge decreed, rising to his feet. “We will begin proceedings at precisely 0930. Court adjourned.” 

Claire watched as the man banged the gavel once, climbed down the short staircase, then disappeared back through that same side door. The cop in beige reclaimed his prisoner, snapping the cuffs around his wrists and ankles and escorting him out of the courtroom once his lawyer finished speaking with him. Amid the racket of dozens of shocked murmurs, Claire did not hear what passed between client and attorney. But the man’s visage was filled with a steely determination that made Claire’s very blood freeze in her veins. 

She didn’t like this. At all. 

Mr. McCallister, however, did not appear at all concerned. Emerging from his seat, he braced both hands on the desk and smiled at Claire in what, she presumed, was meant to be a reassuring manner. “Don’t worry, Claire. As the judge said, it’s very difficult to prove temporary insanity. Our plan of attack should be a cinch.” 

‘But if he *does* manage to convince the jury, he’ll basically get off scot free.’ Claire had seen enough true crime documentaries to know that. 

She nodded with a certainty she didn’t feel. Her father climbed out of the galley and approached the desk, hand extended to shake Mr. McCallister’s. “Thank you, Peter.”

The state prosecutor took Richard Standish’s outstretched hand and pumped twice. “No thanks necessary, Richard,” he said again. “We will reconvene tonight to discuss a plan going forward. Kate’s making a pot roast.” 

Her father laughed halfheartedly and nodded. Mr. McCallister bid Claire adieu for the time being and exited the courtroom. 

John guided Claire out of the courtroom, his hand at the small of her back. He said not a word, merely fumed silently, the only sound in the mid-afternoon being his hasty, angry footfalls and fast-paced exhalations. 

It wasn’t until they climbed in the Audi, she in the passenger’s seat while he claimed the driver’s side, that, after a brief hesitation, he let loose all the ire and frustration he’d been experiencing since the man’s plea was announced—and long before that. His hands forming into fists, he bashed them both atop the car’s gray dashboard, over and over again until bruises formed on his skin, all the while muttering obscenities and intermittently yelling “FUCK!”

As Claire observed, she had a bit of a flashback to that first Saturday in detention, a day and a lifetime ago. When he’d revealed the burn scar that still lingered on his inner forearm, the end of the cigar John’s horrid excuse of a father had put out on him for spilling paint in the garage. Andy’s initial disbelief prompted him to not just uncover the scar, but also yell and knock things over and climb up to the library’s second floor to get away from them.

John’s reaction now was disturbingly similar. 

Claire placed one hand on his back, just beneath his shaking shoulder. John’s head rose from the top of the steering wheel, he straightened, and cleared his throat, as though attempting to erase the moment of extreme vulnerability he’d just exhibited. “Let’s go back to the apartment for now. We have to be in Winnetka by 7.” 

Merely nodding, the Princess wordlessly rubbed his back a bit more as he piloted the car out of the lot and headed back to their building.

**  
The McCallister house in Winnetka was a certified McMansion—a huge-ass Georgian Colonial constructed of brick and whitewash siding, with these ovular shuttered windows and an attic poking up through the black gabled roof. The small circular porch boasted those rich people columns, a separate garage was perched in the back, and a multitude of bizarre statuettes decorated the expansive lawn. There was a bronze (mostly naked) Cupid. A praying cement Mary. Keebler elf-like lawn gnomes. Some metal lady waving an American flag. All along the cobblestone pathway, the one that cut the front lawn in two, were planted little bushels of flowers—fuck him if he knew which kind they were; the only flower he was certain of was the peony because it was Claire’s favorite and, thus, he’d bought enough “I’m-sorry-I-fucked-up” bouquets for the local florist to know his order by heart—and the grass was littered with children’s toys. A bike here. A pair of roller blades there. A flat basketball loitering sadly in the driveway. 

The McCallisters’ abode was the largest house in the block. It was good being a state prosecutor, apparently. 

The inside was filled with yet more goodies, a lot of high-tech shit. A nearly flat 60-inch TV. An entire wall of killer stereo equipment. A personal fucking computer. A whole rack of movies. Game consoles piled one on top of another. Even one of those video phones. 

‘Man, the Brainiac would drop dead if he saw all this.’

They were all seated around the enormous mahogany table in the dining room now, the one just off the kitchen. And by “all”, John included the entire McCallister brood on top of Claire, himself, and the Standishes. The McCallisters included *seven kids*, he couldn’t imagine it. The youngest was blond moppet Kevin at eight. But there were also brothers Jeff and Buzz and sisters Sondra, Heather, Linnie, and Megan. 

If this was dinner every night in this house, it was complete anarchy. Three of the four girls were arguing over each other about…John thought it was boys or someone borrowed someone else’s sweater without asking, who the fuck knew. Jeff and Megan silently stared down at their respective Gameboys. Buzz and Kevin were beating the hell out of each other, eventually taking their verbal and physical sparring from the table to the floor. And, somehow, Kevin appeared to be winning, the boy triumphantly sitting on top of his brother’s torso with fists raised. 

John would’ve been impressed if he wasn’t drowning in the midst of all this chaos. 

Then, there was poor Mrs. McCallister, a harried-looking redhead in a suit and apron. She was racing back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room, flat shoes whacking against the hardwood floor, laying dish after dish on the table only to have the contents all but vanish within a hairsbreadth of doing so by the hungry, hungry mouths of hungry, hungry adolescents. 

It was bewildering. By the time the platter of pot roast reached him, all that was left were the gristly, tough bits. John shrugged and piled the mashed potatoes on his plate beside the meat. Still looked better than the stuff Claire concocted. 

Amid the insanity, Peter McCallister and Richard Standish were attempting to discuss the case. Nora, as predicted, was sitting there wearing a sour look and pointedly not talking to anyone. 

“Now,” Mr. McCallister said, slightly leaning over the table to speak to Claire’s father. “As I was saying, a temporary insanity plea is *very* difficult to prove, so our offense should be a seamless one. We—damnit! Buzz! Kevin! Get up off the floor, you’re gonna break another vase!”

Fourteen-year-old Buzz and eight-year-old Kevin halted rolling around on the ground and punching each other just inches before one—or both—of them collided with a decorative stand. They looked at each other then back to their father, flashed twin smiles, then climbed to their feet and sheepishly reclaimed their chairs. 

Nora was minutely shaking her head. She looked as though she’d just drunk unsweetened lemon juice. 

John’s mother-in-law may as well have been one of those weird statues on the lawn. 

Mr. McCallister sighed and turned to face Rich again. “My apologies.”

Rich, for his part, grinned knowingly. “No apologies needed. Kids, right?”

Claire crossed her arms and pouted. “Josh and I never wrestled like that!”

“No, you only bit each other,” her father corrected, and John had to bark a laugh. “Two little vampires, you were.”

Josh picked apart his piece of bread with a snicker. Claire’s pout deepened. The secret was out. 

If Claire had been a biter as a kid, that certainly explained a few things. John let a slow grin cross his face, and his wife stepped on his foot. 

“John, Claire,” Mrs. McCallister said, a tad winded. She clutched another platter of meat between two hands sheathed in oven mitts. “Would either of you like some more pot roast?”

Claire, ever mindful of propriety, softly demurred. He, however, tucked a napkin inside his shirt. “Yeah, thanks, Mrs. M! This is great pot roast.”

With an indulgent smile, Mrs. McCallister bent over his plate and scooped out more meat. “Would you like some more, Nora?” she asked to the ice woman beside him. John could smell the strong reek of her perfume quite easily. 

His mother-in-law smiled stonily up at her. “No, thank you. *Kate*.”

Mrs. McCallister beamed tightly and moved on. John shook his head. He’d never understand the inner workings of the Ultra Elite. 

A few seats down, Kevin McCallister flicked mashed potatoes into his brother’s face with his fork. John thought that was a waste of perfectly good potatoes. 

“Boys! None of that,” their mother admonished, setting down another bowl of creamed corn. “Jeff, Megan! Stop playing with those things and eat! Girls, *please* stop yelling at each other.”

The girl beside Claire—brunette, braces; may have been Linnie—visibly sulked. “But Heather took my sweater without asking! And then *put it in the wash*!” She glared across the table at…”Heather”, he supposed. “You *knew* it was hand-wash only!”

Heather stuck her tongue out at her sister. “I did not!”

“Did so! It says so right on the label!”

“I didn’t *read* the label!” 

“You shouldn’t have taken it in the first place!”

John blinked. If this was what he missed out on not having sisters, he was perfectly fine with that. 

Following a rather unconventional dinner, he, Claire, the Standishes, and Peter McCallister trod into the den—where Mr. McCallister, haggard, closed and locked the double doors behind him. Then placed a chair under the doorknob. John had to bite back a snicker. ‘The kids are definitely not all right.’ 

Exhaling audibly, the state prosecutor retreated to the large black oak desk they encircled. John felt as though he’d just entered a War Room, and, as Peter McCallister began displaying pages from Claire’s file, they were planning a great battle. ‘The Siege of Chicago—probably starring Kurt Russell or Steven Seagal.’ 

“So, this is our plan of attack,” Mr. McCallister said as he leaned over the desk. He pointed to a single page. “This is a list of witnesses. So far, we have Laura Bender—John, that’s your mother?” At his silent nod, Mr. McCallister continued. “Though she wasn’t present for the crash, she’ll make a good character witness. Allison Clark and Andrew Clark, Tyson Carter, Claire herself, of course, a few witnesses to the crash, a psychologist, the first responders, and you, John. Can you think of anyone else who may provide testimony for our case against Jacob?” 

John worried his lip between his front teeth. He’d been pondering just this question for a few days and kept coming up with the same answer. It had been so long since he’d glimpsed the man, though, since he’d been at all a part of “the family”, whatever that meant now. Would he even voluntarily make the trip, wherever he was? Or would a subpoena be necessary? He was no criminal justice genius, but he knew all about subpoenas. He watched “Law and Order”! 

Clearing his throat, John decided to put forth the name despite his reservations. “Um, my Uncle Lou—ah, Louis Bender. He’s my old man’s twin brother. Lit on out of Shermer as soon as he turned eighteen and it’s been years since I’ve talked to the guy. Could provide helpful testimony, though.”

Who knew Jake Bender better than the brother who’d grown up with him?

Peter steepled his fingers. “Do you know where he is now?”

John shrugged. “No idea. I can ask my ma, maybe she knows.”

Claire pushed herself off the loveseat she’d been occupying and grasped his forearm. “Will you be…okay seeing him? After all this time, I mean.” 

Again, John’s shoulders bobbed. “I guess. Doesn’t matter. His testimony would be great if we can find him.”

Peter nodded and hastily scrawled “Louis Bender” beneath the list of other typed names. “I’ll try to track him down myself.”

Richard, too, leaned forward on the couch beside his wife. “Should we—Nora and I—testify?” 

The prosecutor looked uncertain. “Perhaps. It might help to establish Claire’s persona—“ 

John and Claire regarded each other. “Why would my ‘persona’ be in question?” she asked, once more regarding her lawyer. 

Peter McCallister sighed and ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. “I know Alan Drake, Claire, I’ve come up against him a few times. The man is *ruthless* in defense of his clients. He *will* go after every aspect of you—your life choices, your personality, even the way you dress, if he can. Anything to de-credit you in the jury’s eyes; he has no morality.”

At that, Claire widened her eyes, appearing horrified. Nora gasped, and Richard clenched his fist. John, too, was seeing red—redder, anyway; he’d been engulfed in a haze of rage since the afternoon when the plea was read—but he wasn’t surprised. At his mother’s hearing, the prosecution had all but torn her to shreds, questioning everything from her intellect to her hair style. The thought, the mere notion, of his wife being put through that… And being Richard Standish’s daughter, any and all skeletons in her closet would be leaked to the press somehow and blown up. She’d never get a moment’s peace. 

“Don’t worry,” Mr. McCallister assured all of them, patting Claire’s whitened fingers. “I plan to go after *his* client with equal vigor. Jacob Bender’s every indiscretion will be revealed; after what he did, nothing is sacred. And I’m absolutely certain that there are quite a few of those indiscretions. A man like him? His list of transgressions must be a mile long!” 

Beside him, curiously, the corners of Claire’s lips flickered.

Mr. McCallister moved on to detail the rest of their “plan of attack”. It basically all boiled down to proving the old man had always acted cruel and callous, that his actions that day had definitely not been an overwrought lapse. Their argument heavily relied on character witnesses, people who knew Jake and had for years and could specify exactly what kind of heartless shithead he was. What he’d done to Claire, running her down and leaving her for dead, would be described for the jury as the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

At the end of the night, following their meeting and subsequent dessert (chocolate cream pie, fresh from the oven; Kevin McCallister had planted a rubber snake in his brother’s slice, much to John’s hilarity), as they were walking back to the Audi in the summer chill, Claire clasped her hands behind her back and stared askance at him. “What do you think?”

John, about to open the door for her, regarded Claire over his shoulder. “What do *I* think? Well, Princess, I’m not exactly a bastion of the law, but—“

Behind him, Claire rolled her eyes, visible in the dusky evening. “Just your opinion, John. Do you think it’ll work?”

“I think my old man’s a piece of donkey shit,” John replied, holding open the door. “And that won’t be too difficult to prove. We got this, Sweets.”

His wife nodded and, without another word, climbed into the passenger’s seat. They didn’t speak the rest of the drive home, each lost in their own thoughts. John was secretly glad for the reprieve; he would *not* reveal to her that, really, he was scared out of his fucking mind.   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: "No caviar for me, thanks. Never did like it much." Lifted directly from Titanic. I have to stop watching that movie.
> 
> Note 2: Furthermore, spewing red, white, and blue is from Heathers, a remark JD made just before Heather Chandler unknowingly chugged bleach and crashed through the coffee table. 
> 
> Note 3: The 1919 "Black Sox" trial pit nine White Sox players against the state when it was discovered that they agreed to intentionally throw the World Series to get moneyz from a local Al Capone type. Leopold and Loeb were two nineteen year old asshole students who randomly kidnapped a fourteen year old boy and killed him to prove their "intellectual supremacy". 
> 
> Note 4: Allison's court outfit is inspired by the look Reese Witherspoon was sporting in Legally Blonde after she won that fellowship.
> 
> Note 5: Did Home ALone ever reveal Mr. McCallister's profession? Well, whatever, he's a prosecutor now lols. I actually considered using Elle Woods for a hot second, but the timing wouldn't at all match up. Elle would still be a kid in 1990.
> 
> Note 6: Again, Judge Marshall Stevens is out of Liar, Liar. In my head, for the purposes of this fic, he lived in Chicago before moving to Los Angeles xD I looked up how case numbers are formatted. The first two represent the year in which the case was filed, the next the number corresponding to the type of crime. 1 in Illinois is "criminal"
> 
> Note 7: That house Home Alone used for exterior shots (the movie was mostly filmed in a gym constructed in New Trier High School) really is in Winnetka. A house like that, I would've assumed Lake Forest. Winnetka is also where Rock Hudson was from, back when he was Roy Fitzgerald. IMDb has random trivia.


	48. Chapter 47: You Can't Handle the Truth! (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Deux!

Chapter 47: You Can't Handle the Truth! (Part 2)

Allison and Andy were going to be testifying today. 

Shuddering for probably the tenth time that morning, Ally peered into one of the mirrored closets in the Millennium Park apartment she shared with her husband. Recalling the ridiculous set of stairs, Allison stepped out of her heeled boots and slipped into her trusty Chuck Taylors instead. Her long black skirt would cover her feet; no one had to know that she wasn’t totally trial-appropriate. If she had to sit on that stand today, being interrogated by that awful Drake person, she was going to be comfortable, by hook or crook.

It was the second day of the trial. Last night, while Claire and John were reconvening with Claire’s lawyer, Allison took herself down to the massive Chicago Public Library with one goal in mind—to research Councilor Alan Drake. Amidst the over *five million* volumes and texts, Allison had eventually discovered exactly what she’d be up against in an encyclopedia and amongst the offerings in the microfiche, which contained Chicago-centric articles dating back to the turn of the century. 

The man was relatively “green” in comparison, but at only 38-years-old, he’d already cooked up quite the résumé defending some of Chicago’s most wicked criminals. A serial killer here, a dirty cop there. His most infamous case was regarding a nurse named Hotchkiss—Hannah Hotchkiss, R.N. Nicknamed the Angel of Death, the young woman, who, at the time, worked at St. Stephen’s Hospital in the 10th district, had purposely administered lethal doses of morphine to terminally ill patients—or any patient she deemed “worthy” of what she called “mercy kills”. She was particularly notorious for bestowing her brand of “mercy” on children living with cancer. 

Alan Drake had defended her. And won. Her first degree murder charge was reduced to mere manslaughter, and she only spent two of her ten year sentence in prison.

‘Justice, my ass,’ Ally had muttered at the microfiche machine upon reading the article on the Angel of Death.

On the phone with Claire following yesterday’s plea reveal, the Princess had warned her that Alan Drake was a beast, according to Peter McCallister. Reading those articles, she knew that she wasn’t exaggerating.

She walked out to the living room to find Andy shrugging on his windbreaker. “You ready?” he asked, straightening his collar. 

Ally blew her bangs out of her face. “As I’ll ever be.”

Her husband flashed her a thin-lipped smile. “It’ll be okay, Al. If that guy gets to you, just unleash your inner Basketcase. Bite him or something.”

Laughing, Allison reached for her very large bag. “The judge would lock me in contempt. I could scratch ‘rot in a jail cell’ off my To-Do List.”

When they arrived at the courthouse, Peter McCallister, the prosecutor, sat both Clarks down and explained what would be occurring. “I’m going to call you, Allison, then you, Andrew, to the stand one at a time. After I’m through questioning each of you, Mr. Drake will cross-examine. Now, the man has…a bit of a reputation. He will not go quietly into the night, you understand? He’s going to try to trip you up, make you think you’ve said or done something he can use, something that discredits the prosecution. Just…be prepared.”

Beside her, Andy gulped. “Um, is there anything we should do…specifically?” 

Mr. McCallister simply smiled. “Just tell the truth. That’s all you need to do.”

Andy and Allison traded glances, then followed the state prosecutor inside the courtroom. Inside, Claire was already seated at the table on the left, and John, Josh, and the rest of her family—including Laura; Allison wasn’t sure what to think of that—claimed the first bench behind her. The Clarks climbed into open spaces beside Ty and Megan. 

Allison twiddled her black-painted thumbs in her lap, her pulse fluttering, as she waited for Mr. McCallister to call her name. 

“Your Honor, I’d like to call my first witness,” the prosecutor said, and, at Judge Stevens’ authority, raised his voice to be heard better over the crowd. “The prosecution calls Allison Clark to the stand.”

Haltingly, anxious, Allison rose to her full height. Andy smiled reassuringly at her, a gesture that she returned, albeit shakily, as she climbed over the multiple pairs of legs in the crowded bench. She stepped on Ty’s foot. He winced and muttered a curse that doubtlessly would’ve been amplified if she’d chosen to keep those heeled boots on. 

The courtroom was hushed whilst she trod down the narrow aisle toward the bench. She could feel every eye in the galley on her, making Allison long for her old black coat. 

At the bench, the bailiff put a Bible under her palm and raised a hand. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you, God?”

Ally nodded. “I’m agnostic, but I swear anyway.”

Titters from the galley. Judge Stevens chuckled as she climbed into the bench, folding her hands atop the podium. Before her was a small microphone perched on a short stand. To her right, the court reporter cracked her fingers and placed them on typewriter keys. 

Across the room, Jake Bender and his defense attorney stared up at her with differing expressions—the lawyer’s shrewd and calculating whereas Jake’s stayed effortlessly chilling. Allison gulped, but smothered the sound. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. 

Peter McCallister climbed out from behind the table he shared with Claire and slowly approached the bench. “Mrs. Clark, can you, for the record, express your relationship to Claire Standish?”

Ally stopped herself from snorting in amusement. ‘Jeez, this is just like “Law and Order”. Someone get Dick Wolffe on the phone.’ “I’m a friend of hers,” she replied, leaning a bit too far into the mic. 

The prosecutor crossed his wrists behind his back, his stance casual. It lightened some of the tension in Ally’s shoulders. “And how long have you known her?”

Again, Allison leaned a bit too close into the microphone. “About six and a half years? We met in junior year of high school.” 

On the other side of the courtroom, Claire flashed her a discreet thumbs-up. 

Peter McCallister nodded. “On the day in question, Thursday, May 17th, 1990, can you describe to me your day? What did you do after you woke up in the morning?” 

Ally paused. She had to think back a few months. Back to the day that had begun just as every other day and ended so horrifically. All due to the man on the far right side of the courtroom, sitting there impassively, a pale, glowing beacon in orange. His mien was pokerfaced, his countenance lazy, unconcerned, but his eyes remained sharp and cutting, belying the true nature of Jake Bender within. “Well. I wasn’t working that day—I teach art classes at the Y on 34th Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and every other week on Saturdays—so I slept in. I didn’t wake up ‘til about twenty minutes before Claire arrived.” 

More snickers from the galley, the loudest belonging to her husband. He was the most aware—painfully aware—of her odd sleeping schedule, after all. 

The lawyer’s lips flickered. “Okay, and why did Ms. Standish come over that day? Was there any particular reason?”

“She wanted to get some errands done, so I volunteered to watch Danielle,” Allison explained, then added for propensity, “Um, her baby. *Their* baby. Her and John’s…baby.” 

Again, the onlookers laughed. Allison felt her cheeks heating. She was not much of an orator, never had been. 

In the front row of the left side of the galley, John rolled his eyes and mouthed “Basketcase” in her direction. Ally fought the urge to stick her tongue out at him. She was up on the bench; that wouldn’t be perceived as very mature, right?

Mr. McCallister, hands still clasped behind his back, trod in a tight circle before turning back to her and asking his next question. Everything about his deportment was casual and unhurried. “That was about noon, yes?” Off Ally’s nod, he continued. “In that time she was gone, what were you doing?”

Before Allison could reply, a stern, masculine voice cut through her intended words, the three syllables as sharp as a blade. “Objection!” the asshole’s attorney barked, ascending from his seat. “Your Honor, relevance?” 

Mr. McCallister explained to the judge that he was attempting to substantiate a chain of events leading up to Jake Bender’s dastardly, nearly fatal deed. Allison held her breath as Judge Stevens briefly considered, and only released it when the man nodded.

“I’ll allow it. Please continue, Councilor.”

The other guy grumbled beneath his breath and lowered himself back to his chair. Ally bit her lip to keep from giggling. 

Claire’s lawyer reiterated the question, and Allison thought back. It had been a pretty average day—thus far. Speaking again into the microphone, she confirmed that she’d remained in the apartment with the baby. Claire had left the diaper bag, so she fed her lunch, they watched some ‘toons, then Danielle took a nap in her carrier. Allison took the opportunity to hone her sculpting skills. “And then, my husband called me.”

“That is Andrew Clark, correct? Can you point him out for the record?”

Extending an arm, Allison pointed toward her husband in the third row, smack dab in the middle beside Megan Hicks. Ludicrously, Andy ducked his head, kind of like a turtle, and raised a hand to wave. 

The prosecutor spun back around as the galley broke up in titters again. “Thank you. So, when Mr. Clark called you, what did he say, precisely?” 

*That* memory Ally didn’t need to pull from the file cabinet in her mind; it was tattooed on her brain, a conversation she replayed over and over again, in both her dreams and waking life. Briefly, Allison closed her eyes and shivered. “He…he told me Claire had been in an accident. And I needed to go down to the hospital right away.”

Mr. McCallister crossed back to the desk Claire currently occupied, slid a piece of white paper off the tabletop, and asked, gazing down at the printout, “This is Shermer General, yes?” At her nod, he went on. “And what did you do then? Did you go to the hospital?”

‘Of course I did!’ Allison was almost indignant that this was in question. “Yes, with the baby. I took her down there in the carrier. My husband, sister, and I remained there for a few hours until closing. Claire was unconscious in the ICU wing.”

The lawyer was still staring at the printout. “How long was Ms. Standish unconscious?”

Ally inhaled deeply. She didn’t need to consider that answer either. Those hours had been the longest of her life. “Four days, almost.” 

“And where was the child through all of this chaos?”

Allison sighed. She could hear Danielle’s incessant cries bouncing off the walls of her skull right now. “Andy and I watched her. She was crying a lot those few days. It’s like she knew something was wrong.”

Again, the asshole defense attorney barked “Objection!” and climbed out of his chair, leaning over the table. “Your Honor, speculation?” 

Judge Stevens pursed his lips but nodded. “Sustained. Stricken from the record.”

While Allison was silently berating herself for any minute error she made, a small smile snaked across the defense attorney’s thin, dry lips. Eyes narrowing, Ally sat up straighter and wrapped both hands around the microphone stand. “Oh, pardon me. I’ll rephrase. She was crying *a lot*. I guess because she had diaper rash?” 

The assembled onlookers chuckled. Even Judge Stevens looked amused. Mr. Drake, however, scowled, his already thin lips compressing in a barely visible line. Allison cocked her chin and crossed her arms in a stance her husband would’ve easily recognized. Though she was no John or Claire, Ally harbored her own stubborn streak. When a smarmy shithead attempted to undermine her, that stubborn streak grew fatter and longer. 

Mr. McCallister chuckled as well and asked her a few more questions—mostly about in what physical state Claire was in, in her opinion, and what she had told her about Jake Bender in the past. Namely, that John steadfastly kept her away from his father because of his cruelty against him. When Drake dared to object once more, Allison pictured herself clambering over the bench and smacking him silly. Fortunately, the judge overruled the objection. 

“No more questions, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said and returned to the desk. 

Allison straightened even more as the defense attorney sauntered—literally *sauntered*--from the table he shared with his *client* to the bench, mentally and physically preparing herself to face down the same lawyer who’d gotten the Angel of Death’s charges reduced to manslaughter. 

Yet, for all her bravado, Allison’s hackles rose as he oh so casually paced before her. 

Drake checked his watch as if he was simply waiting for the bus, then finally met her gaze. It was odd. Such an unassuming-looking man, the type of person no one would look twice at or for, and yet, *this* guy held a monster’s fate in his palm. 

“Well!” Drake exclaimed with a clap. So loud, she nearly jumped. “Miss Clark, is it?”

Allison glowered, as did her husband on the other side of the courtroom. “*Mrs.* Clark.” 

‘You knew that, you bastard.’ He’d heard her be referred to as “Mrs. Clark” a dozen times. 

The man held aloft his hands palm-out in mock-surrender. “My apologies. Mrs. Clark, you said in your earlier testimony that you awoke around twenty minutes before Ms. Standish arrived at your apartment with her baby.” It was a statement, not a question. But his eyebrows rose inquisitively anyway. 

Allison shrugged. “I sleep in late when I don’t have work.” 

Drake performed a show of slowly trotting a few paces to the right, murmuring “Hmm” audibly—intentionally so, Ally knew. She’d seen enough documentaries to know how sleazy lawyers operated. “And you knew Ms. Standish was dropping the child off?”

“Objection,” Mr. McCallister called, half out of his chair. “Relevance?” 

“I’ll allow it,” Judge Stevens decreed, turning to gaze down at Allison. “Mrs. Clark, please answer the question.”

Ally sighed. Of course she knew. It was why she woke herself up at 11:30 rather than after noon. “We’d discussed it the day before, so yes.”

Once more, that infuriating “Hmm”. Notably, Claire was glaring askance at the lawyer while, in the front row, John’s jaw was clenched. He was staring at Drake as though he would transform into a wolf and pounce. Ally wouldn’t put it past the guy. 

Drake spun on his heel and regarded the galley. “Kind of irresponsible, wouldn’t you say? If you knew an infant was arriving soon, surely one would wake much earlier than that to make certain nothing was lying around that could hurt her. And in an apartment, no less. Small, high up. And with the baby newly mobile.”

Allison’s hackles rose. ‘How had he known that?’ 

Mr. McCallister objected again, and Drake explained very openly, blatantly, that he was calling Ally’s credibility into question. Judge Stevens sighed but overruled the objection, and Allison’s hackles further lifted. 

At her right, the blasé court reporter punched some information into the typewriter. 

“And isn’t it also true,” Drake continued, his tone far too casual for Allison’s liking. “That you never actually *witnessed* any of the so-called ‘anecdotes’ of my client’s purported ‘callousness’ but heard them secondhand?” 

She could *hear* the quotations around “anecdotes” and “callousness”. “Well, yes, but—“

Yet, Drake wasn’t finished. “Most of which came from Ms. Standish herself? In regards to her, ahem, boyfriend?”

In the galley, a muscle in John’s jaw worked, and Claire’s brother whispered something in his ear. Claire herself sat ramrod straight, silently fuming, in the desk. 

Allison, mimicking her friends’ ire, rolled her eyes. “What does *that* matter?”

“Please answer the question, Mrs. Clark,” the judge bade in a voice much kinder than the asshole’s before her. 

Sighing, she glanced from side to side and crossed her arms. “I guess, yeah.”

Drake smirked, as though Ally had just given away a vital piece of information. She recalled Mr. McCallister’s warning that he’d do just this, making her believe that she’d done or said something to hurt the prosecution’s case. But that didn’t halt the infusion of contrition. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Then, he strode back to the defendant’s desk, still wearing that infuriating smirk. As Allison was climbing down from the bench, she observed the eerily silent Mr. Bender whisper something in his lawyer’s ear. Mr. Drake nodded once, and Mr. Bender sat back in his chair, looking stupidly satisfied. 

**  
Following Ally’s testimony, the defense called a psych to the stand—not the behavioral psychologist Mr. McCallister had gotten to testify for the prosecution, but another, older man who wore a white lab coat and, it had to be said, a really punchable, smug expression. Andy’s fists clenched at his sides before the man even spoke. 

Beside him, his wife’s dark eyes narrowed. She had seen him before. 

Drake confidently began probing the guy with too-innocent questions concerning Jake Bender’s psyche. According to a court report Drake submitted as Exhibit A, the psych had “officially met with and examined” one Jacob Bender while he was incarcerated in County. 

“And, in your opinion, Dr. Markham,” the defense attorney started, the visage on his face much too pleasant for the topic at hand. ‘Like, “My shithead client nearly killed a girl”, that topic?’ “How would you diagnose Mr. Bender after meeting with him?”

This Dr. Markham’s fingers bridged together like Mr. Burns. ‘Kinda looks like him, too,’ Andy thought, knowing that he was being petty but not really caring. ‘Balding, cotton candy hair, liver spots, long needlenose.’ His likeness to the evil cartoon’s was quite enough to seal the man’s reputation in Andy’s eyes. 

Well, that and his patently made-up or exaggerated response. “It’s my official findings that Mr. Bender is stricken with PTSD resulting from not just the near-fatal crash but his wife leaving him, too, triggering that bloody response.”

The galley broke up in anguished outrage. In the back, Ferris Bueller could be heard shouting “What bullshit!” and, in the first row, Bender and Josh appeared to yearn to beat the crap out of both Jake and his weasel-y attorney, tag-team style. 

‘They’d make an interesting addition to the WWF, that’s for sure.’ 

At the bench, Judge Stevens slammed his gavel twice. “Order! I will have order in this courtroom, or I will make it closed. Young man.” The judge addressed Ferris particularly. Andy looked at his friend over his shoulder. “Please refrain from the outbursts in the future or I may have to kick you out.”

Ferris’ hands hovered in an exaggerated shrug, and his mouth stretched in his patented “Who, me?” grin. Andy snickered beneath his breath. 

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Judge Stevens grumbled, craning his head to stare up at a small video camera hung suspended from the wall over the bench. “And it’s being broadcast, too. At least the viewers at home will be entertained.”

The galley chuckled. ‘This is gonna be on TV?’ the Sport wondered. ‘Huh.’ He’d figured those cameras to be for security. If he was going to be on television, he needed to further tame the cowlicks at the base of his head. A mite insecure, Andy’s hand absently hovered at the back of his skull. Allison rolled her eyes, reached into her giant bag, and produced a tub of hair gel. 

Sitting a few seats down from her son, Laura Bender looked stricken, her tanned complexion having paled noticeably beneath her makeup. She obviously hadn’t expected this, that her soon-to-be ex-husband’s defense would use her as a means of deflection.

Bender’s face had turned a remarkable shade of puce. He appeared to be *this close* to a total, Tom-and-Jerry-style meltdown. 

“Please continue, Dr. Markham,” Judge Stevens encouraged, setting down his gavel. 

Dr. Markham cleared his throat. “As I said, I believe Mr. Bender has a severe case of PTSD—“ 

“Can you explain what that is, for the court?” Drake was still addressing his witness in a suspiciously offhanded manner. It caused the hair on the back of Andy’s neck to stand at attention. 

“Certainly,” the psych agreed. “PTSD stands for Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. PTSD is defined by ‘triggers’ that take a sufferer straight back to the moment that caused them to break. Many war veterans suffer from PTSD. Rape survivors. Victims of abuse—“

Laura blanched all the more. Bender looked about ready to explode. 

“—and, yes, instigators of major accidents. In Germany, train conductors who unwittingly become the tools of suicide for the clinically depressed are required to attend therapy, for instance.” 

‘Yeah, and what about the *victims* of major accidents?” Andy scowled. Talking to his wife, he was aware that Claire had been having difficulty sleeping since the crash. 

The psych went on to add that Mr. Bender seemed “clear-headed and sound” until one of these triggers presented itself, such as the echo of metal against metal. Or the last words his wife had ever said to him, which apparently were “I’m just going to the store. Be back in a bit.” 

At the prosecution desk, while Claire’s façade reflected her anger and inner turmoil, a smirk was slowly blooming across Peter McCallister’s jaw—one that was mirrored by Allison, who then leaned into Megan’s ear and whispered something indiscernible. Andy and Ty gawked at each other, puzzled. 

Once Drake finished interrogating the psych, Peter McCallister nonchalantly approached the bench after leafing through a manila folder and producing a printout Andy couldn’t discern from this vantage. Mr. McCallister asked Dr. Markham how many times, in the past, he had worked with Mr. Drake…and only Mr. Drake. When the doctor haltingly—and vaguely—answered “…a few”, the prosecutor produced the white piece of paper for him, and then the rest of the galley, to clearly see. 

“I believe this is you, Dr. Markham, testifying—for Councilor Drake, of course—on the Meadows vs. Lannette Psychiatric Hospital,” Mr. McCallister orated, crossing to the westernmost wall where the twelve members of the jury were collected. As one, a dozen heads craned forward to get a better look. 

The psych’s lips twitched in a very subtle twinge that Andy, with his 20/20 sight honed by years of searching out physical weaknesses in his opponents on the mat, managed to catch.

The prosecutor returned to the bench, standing before the doctor, and continued. “Where you, Dr. Markham, produced this exact same diagnosis for the defendant, Mr. Meadows, in his suit against the Lannette Psychiatric Hospital.”

Andy could clearly read the tension in the tightening of the doctor’s shoulders. But still, his response was a mere “So?”

On the right, Drake’s shoulder muscles tensed as well. 

“So, isn’t it true that you were the only ‘licensed’ physician to come to this conclusion on that particular case?” The doctor opened his mouth to answer, but Mr. McCallister went on. “And isn’t it also true that you’ve presented this exact analysis in four other previous cases? I believe they are…” Glancing down at the paper, he listed off the cases one by one. “…Sowitzki vs. Patton, Connelly and Larson vs. the State of Illinois, Taylor vs. the State of Illinois, and Li vs. Childe?” 

To his right, Ally was grinning like the cat that ate the canary. She, in her words, “got a happy” when someone—especially a douchebag someone—was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. In the front row, Bender leaned back in his bench with his hands behind his head. 

The doctor pled the fifth. Mr. McCallister nodded knowingly. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

As Dr. Markham slugged back to the last seat on the right side of the galley, Andy himself was called to the bench. Swallowing harshly, he climbed over six sets of legs, his wife squeezing his hand as he passed, and a tad sheepishly ambled his way up the aisle. ‘It’s a good thing Bri’s not testifying.’ If *he* felt weird with all these eyes gawking at him—Andrew Clark, who’d spent many a Friday showing off his moves in front of hundreds of spectators—he could only imagine how the Brainiac would feel. 

Once he was sworn in, Peter McCallister dived right in. He first asked him what he had been doing in the hours leading up to Claire’s “accident”. 

Andy paused. “Um, I went to work at 7—I’m an ad man at Leo Burnett—and remained there until…I guess 1? 1:30? I, uh, told my boss that I was leaving early that day for, um, a dentist’s appointment. But really, my friend over there needed help shopping for a suit. You know, for his wedding.”

In the galley, Bender looked put out at being labeled “in need of help” so publicly. At Mr. McCallister’s bidding, Andy pointed him out, and then detailed what had occurred upon driving back to his and Allison’s apartment. 

“There was a lot of traffic,” he explained, a wave of nausea and fear washing over him as he relived that horrible moment. “We were told to go around…and when we did, it was just chaos. Claire was being pulled out of the wreckage. There was so much…blood…” 

Andy could picture that anarchic scene right now, from the planted oak tree near the accident site to the horrified spectators standing around with slack jaws. Feeling sick all over again, he yearned for a wastebasket or something nearby. He was going to have to make a trip to the little boys’ room after this. 

The prosecutor gently prodded him to reveal what happened next. He told the lawyer that John had burst from his car as it was still moving and climbed into the ambulance with Claire and the EMTs. And then Andy followed them to Shermer General in his van. He remained in the ICU waiting area for the rest of visiting hours before he, Allison, and Eleanor were kicked out. And then they all went back to Housely to watch Danielle. 

The cross-examination was the hard part. Drake immediately went in for the kill, attacking his credibility as he had done his wife. He suggested that Andy didn’t take his job seriously, built a chain of “factual evidence” of him flaking out on responsibility—even going as far as detailing the times he cut class back in high school, and the few detentions he’d garnered along the way; how the guy had known any of *that*, Andy couldn’t say, and thus was kind of freaked—and questioned whether “the child” was truly safe with the Clark family. 

While Andy was floundering, trying and failing to defend himself and growing angrier and angrier, Mr. McCallister abruptly jumped up from his seat and declared, “Objection! Mrs. Clark has already been questioned; she is not the one on the bench.”

Drake glared at the state prosecutor. The icy spikes in his eyes could crack the lenses of his wire-rim glasses. “Your Honor, they are married. Their behavior reflects on each other.”

Before the judge could reply, Mr. McCallister snapped back, “They are individuals and, according to the law of the land, only one witness can be questioned at a time.”

“They are both key players in the events of May the 17th, and their testimonies are circumspect!”

“That’s for the jury to decide!”

“You--!” 

As dozens of heads, Andy’s included, volleyed between the explosive lawyers, the tension becoming thicker and thicker with every passing second, with every frosty glower and narrow-eyed glare, Judge Stevens banged his gavel. “Order! I will have order! Good grief, this is turning into a kangaroo court. I call a brief recess. We’ll meet back here at—“ The judge glanced down at his watch. “—1345. Both councilors will take the recess to CALM. DOWN.” 

Drake clenched his jaw and wordlessly marched back to his side of the courtroom and his client—Jake Bender, who had remained eerily stone-faced through Andy’s testimony. The Sport tried very hard to ignore his shaking knees whilst he stuttered back to his bench. 

“Jesus,” Andy muttered as he reached Allison, who stood at the end of the row to console him. “That lawyer’s…kinda creepy.”

“All lawyers are creepy, Sporto,” Bender said, approaching with Claire at his side. She, too, looked paler than usual beneath her peaches and cream complexion. “It’s like they have to take a course in it in law school. How to be A Creep 101.” 

“Yeah, well,” Andy replied, scratching the back of his neck. “He’s…extra creepy.” 

Claire was gazing out the corner of her eye at Drake and Jake Bender. The attorney in his razor sharp pleated suit was conversing quietly with his “client”. “I don’t like him. I know that type. We used to *have* a lawyer like that. They only care about winning at any cost. They have no scruples. Our old lawyer was liable to plant evidence. That’s why he was let go.”

At his elbow, Brian was leafing through a thick tome whose title read “Byelaws of the Illinois Bar”. “Isn’t that, um, ag—against the Bar? Planting evidence?” 

The Princess shrugged, shoulders bobbing beneath the pink silk blouse she wore. “I don’t think lawyers like that care.” 

Mr. McCallister advanced toward the small gathering and, without pausing, ran a hand through his light brown hair. “I try not to let that man get to me. We have forty-five minutes. You kids get yourselves something from the cafeteria. It’s a floor down.” 

On cue, Andy’s insatiable stomach growled. He’d barely nibbled at breakfast that morning. He was too anxious, and besides, it had been Ally’s turn to cook. The Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups omelet hadn’t looked too appetizing. 

In the cafeteria, as usual, Andy filled up his tray—those odd sectional ones that *really* brought him back to high school sitting with his friends talking about nonsense amid garbage food—with, well, he didn’t really know what. An apple here. A giant cookie the size of his foot there. He paid and sat, but at the table, he found that he was the only one eating. Even Bender barely picked at his pizza, and the dude had once memorably scarfed a dozen hotdogs while riding the Tilt-A-Whirl. Allison, too, was taking the smallest of bites of her ice cream waffle sandwich. And Claire…she wasn’t even pretending. Her salad remained untouched as she stared out into nothing. 

Bender gazed askance at her, clearly concerned. Then, she pushed the tray away and excused herself to escape outside. Bender muttered a muffled oath, rose, and quickly went after her. 

Andy and Allison exchanged worried glances.  
**  
John followed her out of the cafeteria, out of the building. Just outside the exit door was a little patio and awning. Claire stood on the edge of the slab of cement alone, evidently lost in thought, a noticeable wrinkle of contemplation between her eyes (one that she’d have his balls over if he pointed it out). Ironically enough, whilst *real* anarchy was blowing up their lives, crumbling all around them, it was a fucking beautiful day in Chicago. It had been overcast and gray for over a week, but now, not a cloud remained in the blue, blue sky. The sun was shining but it wasn’t too hot. It was perfect. 

And they were all stuck inside a courthouse. ‘Nothin’ to do when you’re locked in a vacancy.’ His old words from years past returned to him, and he grimaced. 

Claire must’ve sensed him coming because, while she didn’t turn around, her tone was airy and expectant. “It’s a gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

John nodded, though he knew she couldn’t see him. Claire laughed bitterly, vaguely pointing out to the “gorgeous day”. “We shouldn’t be here. We should be at home taking Danielle for a walk through the park. She’s never really been able to appreciate a pretty day. It’s…always been cold. When I walked her.”

‘Yeah. Was it cold as a dead man’s balls that day my old man followed and threatened you?’ He hadn’t exactly been paying attention, too focused on his abject rage. 

Still, John said nothing. He didn’t really know *what* to say. She was upset, obviously, and rightfully so. This time, he knew his meager “comforting tactics” like a box of chocolates and a bouquet of those peonies she liked wouldn’t work. Besides, those were his go-tos when he fucked up. But it wasn’t *him* who’d fucked up, not now. It was his DAD. They were here at this dreary—but weirdly opulent—district courthouse, spending a beautiful day trapped here instead of taking their kid out in her stroller like a normal young family, because of him. His friends’ very personas were being attacked because of him. The case was starting to make headlines all over Illinois…because of *him*. 

It seemed as though his wife hadn’t had a moment to breathe since his old man tried to run her down outside a sandwich shop. The “accident” had been quick to spread. Pictures from that horrendous day appeared on the front page of various Chicago-centric newspapers, like the “Chicago Sun Times”—the *front page*, not just the gossip columns where he was used to glimpsing Claire’s blurry face. So-called “insiders” (read: someone already on the payroll) were drafted to provide insight to exaggerated reports in tabloids, creating a false sense of confirmation. Random cameramen—or *paparazzi* as they were called in “the Business”—popped up everywhere to snap photos of his Princess healing. At physical therapy. Around the building. They’d even snapped a few of Dani when he had taken her to feed the ducks once. John was so irate, he’d grabbed the asshole’s Nikon and sent it crashing to the ground. No one was going to publish pictures of *his* kid without his express consent. 

They’d tried getting into Housely, but Olivier and the Bruce twins promptly threw them all out on their asses—literally, in the Bruce Willises’ case. They’d cropped up whilst Claire was running errands. They’d snuck into the hospital while she was there, partly why Rich had demanded that she be moved to somewhere more private. His father-in-law had even hired *security* to safeguard their wedding; no one without a ticket and was on The List would be physically able to get within a mile of the ceremony and reception. 

In fact, right now, a muffled clicking sound reached his ears, a noise he was all too accustomed with. Irate, John marched about two yards away from the patio where he’d heard the sound coming from, reached into a nearby trash bin, and pulled out a skinny dweeb in a news boy’s hat, a big ass camera hung around his neck. The news boy grinned sheepishly up at him, and John felt the urge to punch him in the throat. He demurred, remembering how close he’d come to getting sued when he destroyed the other roach’s camera last week. 

“Just…doin’ my job! You understand that, right, Johnny?”

The weak justification and the nickname stoked his ire all the more. That was what the cockroaches did, used familiar monikers and name-dropped, acting like they already had a close, personal friendship. The only one who could get away with calling him “Johnny” was his ma. And this guy certainly was not his ma. 

John all but pushed the cockroach out of the bin. “Get out of here before I wring your fucking neck, twerp.” 

The guy didn’t need to be told twice. Scrambling away cartoonishly, the camera bounced against his stomach with every footfall. 

Rolling his eyes, John straightened the trash bin and returned to the patio. “These fucking leeches.”

Again, Claire laughed without humor. “Welcome to my life, John. Though, they were never *this* bad before.” 

Previously, Claire had only been deemed a “minor socialite” and thus was mostly relegated to Page Six and other gossip columns. Now, after that crash, she was on the front page of every periodical in Chicago. It was surreal seeing your significant other’s smiling face staring back at you from the newsstands as you bought groceries. 

Claire was a commodity. Everyone in the city and beyond was on tenterhooks about the “accident”. They were getting cold calls from true crime buffs…and a few from plain misogynists who claimed she deserved it. Fortunately, (or unfortunately, from their perspective), those were pretty easy to track down and scare the shit out of. They’d just installed Caller ID. 

Claire sank down on the edge of the patio and buried her head in her hands. “I’m worried,” she admitted, words muffled behind her palms. 

John moved to sit down beside her. “Don’t be. We got this.”

“You saw that lawyer,” she went on, lowering her hands and gazing at him. “*That* is no state-sponsored defender.” 

He shook his head. That he could concur with. “No,” John agreed, his mouth compressing in a straight line. “No, someone is paying that guy. Who, I have no idea. The old man’s got no cash. As soon as he gets his hands on some, he uses it to buy liquor. So…either someone else is covering the legal fees or he had a stash somewhere I didn’t know about.”

The second option was highly unlikely. 

Claire sighed and wrapped her arms around her folded knees. “Mr. McCallister told me that he’s a shark. John, if your father gets off on a temporary insanity plea, he’ll get a slap on the wrist and walk free. We’ll have to move! There’s no way Danielle will be safe anywhere in Chicago with that man on the streets.” 

John winced. She was right, but it still hurt to picture his own father deliberately hurting his infant grandchild. 

Wrapping an arm around her, John pulled her closer. “We’ll cross that bridge if—and I mean * if*--we come to it, Princess. Try not to stress yourself.” 

Another tinkling, but humorless, laugh. “I’ve been stressed since May.” 

“Don’t stress yourself *further*.” Claire rested her head on his shoulder, and he continued. “It’ll be okay. McCallister knows what he’s doing.”

Claire glanced up at him through thick eyelashes. “I hope so.”

There, they waited until it was time to return to the courtroom. There, they were granted a moment’s—just a moment—reprieve from the insanity.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: While Alan Drake is made up, the Evil Nurse case is not. Genene Jones is currently serving 99 years in Texas for intentionally poisoning babies in the NICU with Succinylcholine, a drug used in general anesthesia that causes temporary paralysis and inability to breathe.
> 
> Note 2: Court cases started being broadcast nationally in the 70s. The first major case to be broadcast was the 1979 trial of Ted Bundy.


	49. Chapter 48: You Can't Handle the Truth! (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all. Apologies for the slight delay. I had a massive headache for daysssss. Felt like Keebler elves were mining my skull for cookies. They weren't successful. 
> 
> I damn near gave myself Carpal Tunnel trying to make up for the three days I couldn't do shit. Hope it paid off!

Chapter 48: You Can't Handle the Truth! (Part 3)

Brian found himself…feeling *bad* for Mrs. Standish. 

The day before, while the others were witnessing the trial, it was the Standishes' turn to remain home and watch Danielle (Claire had drawn up a sort of pie chart that John called Wheel O’ Dani), so, the following day, when she and her husband demanded the lowdown of that day’s occurrences, it was Andy who blabbed that Mr. Bender’s lawyer had plainly used the baby in his argument against his and Allison’s testimony. Both Claire and John glared icicles at him; they hadn’t really wanted the Standishes to know, what with Nora’s tendency to make everything about herself and Richard’s recent high blood pressure diagnosis. Andy colored, shrugged sheepishly, and said, “Oops?”

Mr. Standish stomped around cursing while Claire attempted to calm him down, reminding him of his BP count. Mrs. Standish, however, looked like someone had just smacked her in the face (Brian was kind of amazed that no one had, indeed, done just that thus far). She was truly offended, and not just on her own behalf. Picking the baby up out of the satin-lined playpen she’d bought her, Nora cradled Danielle’s head in her hands while the infant looked around in confusion. 

“Oh! That evil, rotten man!” she exclaimed, bouncing the baby in her embrace. “How *dare* he?! To so blatantly use an innocent child as ammunition. Like Danielle is just…a pawn!” 

Brian blinked at the honest outrage. She hadn’t alluded to herself once! ‘Well. That’s good, I guess. And that she seems to finally accept Danielle’s name, now.’ 

Hand buried in his red hair, Mr. Standish turned on the heel of his expensive-looking leather loafer. “For once, Nora and I agree. That is an absolute disgrace, not just to us but the entire legal profession. It used to contain some measure of honor!” 

Brian furrowed his nose where he stood beside Jackie in the opulence of the Standish Estate’s front hall. ‘It did?’ The barefaced corruption and injustice slithering through the legal system was why he’d steered clear of a prelaw major, or anything related to such, despite his mother’s needling. “A lawyer makes a lotta money! Unless you go into environmental law. You wanna have a miserable, frustrating life?” 

“Daddy,” Claire entreated, gently pushing her overextended father toward the nearest chaise lounge. “Sit down, please, before you give yourself a heart attack.” 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Richard Standish mumbled. The maid, Greta, materialized out of nowhere to deliver him a tumbler of scotch. “We need to up the ante, so to speak. No holds barred. I will meet with Peter tonight.”

Nora held Danielle clasped to her hip. The infant’s small fingers were fiddling with one of the sparkly silver earrings she wore in her lobe. “Isn’t there…something…we can do, Richard? You *must* have a connection of some sort. Oh—owwww! Sweetheart, that’s not a toy.”

Jackie barked a laugh, then (badly) covered it up by pretending to cough. John wasn’t bothering to conceal his snicker, garnering Nora’s infamous glower. Used to being on the opposite side of it by now, the burnout didn’t flinch. 

Richard sighed and knocked back a long gulp of the scotch. “What, exactly, do you expect me to do, Nora? I can’t tell someone how to do his job. At least not someone who doesn’t work for me.” This last sentence he added under his breath. 

Nora scoffed. “You’re old chums with that judge. Just…talk to him. Tell him that Danielle is off limits.” 

Mr. Standish quirked two red eyebrows nearly up to his just as red hairline. “Or what? He’ll be thrown in contempt? Have to pay a fine? Perhaps be forced to try your French cooking?” 

This time, it was Claire’s brother who guffawed, nearly choking on the can of Sprite he was drinking from. His quiet boyfriend wordlessly patted his back. 

Nora turned that same glower on her husband. “Don’t mock me, Richard! There must be *something* to be done. And I cook delightful French cuisine. The oven dial broke last time.”

A few feet away, John and Josh were hanging off each other’s shoulders in near silent hysterics. Claire and Mikkel shook their heads at them both. 

“Nora, you can’t possibly think—“ 

“We’re incredibly privileged, Richard! I’m just asking you to *use* that privilege!” 

“Even my reach doesn’t extend *that* far!”

“Oh! You are insufferable!”

Josh, tears of hilarity streaming down his face—the same shade of red as his hair—stepped forward and in between his two oft quarreling parents. “Okay, okay. Mom, Dad can’t just, like, *poof* his will into the law. I mean, not with everything. You can probably get away with some stuff…”

Richard slowly glanced up to meet his son’s eyes, stared for a moment, then knocked back the rest of his drink.

“And Dad,” Claire’s brother continued, glancing between the two of them. Next to Claire, John continued to snicker. Claire herself looked a cross between wanting to join him and step on his foot. “Mom’s just…upset. You guys weren’t there yesterday. That Drake asshole was ruthless. Mr. McCallister almost went apeshit.” 

Nora exhaled, left hand lying flat over Danielle’s ear—just one of them, mind. “Clarence, language. There is a baby here! And it makes you sound boorish.” 

Josh cringed at the use of his first name. That, of course, had John laughing harder. 

Afterward, since they were close, they dropped by Peggy Sue’s for lunch for the first time all year. Though their patronage had been missing for months, Peggy Sue brought out their usual orders without having to be asked. Talk started with normal, stupid things as always but, inevitably, the conversation veered back to the case. 

“So, who do we think is, like…winning?” Andy asked, his be-meatloafed fork raised halfway to his mouth. 

“Um,” Brian replied around a bite of PB&J. “I, uh, d—don’t think that’s h—how it works, Andy.”

“Yeah,” John snorted in agreement, his gigantic half-eaten bacon burger clutched in the hand that wasn’t around Claire’s shoulders. “The judge doesn’t add up points and whoever has the most at the end wins. It’s not a football game, Sporto.”

Across the table from him, Andy scowled. “Points are for basketball games. Football uses touchdowns.” 

The Criminal of their group rolled his eyes and took a vicious bite of his burger. “Yeah, whatever.”

Claire, meanwhile, was half-turned to the wooden highchair the diner had provided for Danielle, digging a tiny spoon inside a jar of unlabeled green stuff. “Come on, honey! It’s good for you!”

Danielle regarded said green stuff in the spoon with evident side-eye. Claire tried to coerce the…glop into her mouth, and the baby’s arm shot out to knock the spoon to the floor. Allison nearly choked on her vegetarian pizza. 

John whooped. “Three points!” 

Claire rolled her eyes as she bent down to clean up the mess. Jackie leaned forward in the booth. “What *is* that stuff?”

“Creamed spinach,” the Princess replied, unfolding a napkin to blot any excess glop from the baby’s face. “It’s supposed to be good for bone density and…stuff.” 

“Not *my* kid,” John negated, scoffing. “She don’t want no spinach! Get her some beef.”

“John, she can’t chew solid foods yet.”

A shrug. “Ask them to puree it first.”

Claire made a face and requested a plate of mashed potatoes instead. 

Brian cleared his throat, attempting to direct the conversation back to its original roots. As much as he loved Danielle, the case was a bit more important than a baby’s eating habits. Besides, that creamed spinach stuff looked gross. “Y—your father is, um, meeting with the pr—prosecutor tonight?”

The redhead nodded, only half-listening whilst she changed Danielle’s soiled bib. “Supposedly. I don’t know what he’ll say to him, though. What Drake did was scummy and opportunistic but not illegal.”

Jackie nibbled on a fry. “He dragged an innocent baby into his argument.”

“I know,” Claire said with a wince. “Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s against the rules or whatever. It’s not like this is a game of Monopoly.” 

“Too bad it isn’t. A trial by Monopoly,” John mused. “The old man would *definitely* lose. I was awesome at board games. I’d put a hotel on Boardwalk and make sure the asshole lands on it over and over again until he only has a few yellow ones left.” 

Allison snorted while she sprinkled a handful of Cheerios atop her pizza. Between the creamed spinach and the Cheerios pizza, Brian wasn’t very hungry anymore. “You used to be good at *board games*? Wow, watch out. We have a badasss over here.” 

“Don’t be jealous,” John said around a mouthful of burger. “I kick ass at Life.”

“That’s the only life you *do* kick ass in.” 

He scowled and flipped her off. Sitting beside his wife, Andy’s shoulders were quaking in laughter. “You walked right into that one, dude.” 

Up went the other middle finger. 

“My parents are testifying tomorrow,” Claire continued, ignoring this exchange. “And then a psychiatrist—“ 

“Hey, Basketcase. Try not to nail this one,” John cackled, greatly amused by his own joke.

Allison glowered and pitched a wadded-up napkin at him. It hit him in the nose. 

Andy wound one arm around his wife’s shoulders while the other hand continued to shovel meatloaf in his mouth like it was the last of its kind on Earth. “Only guy Ally is nailing is me.”

John abruptly ceased chortling, now looking a little green. “Ugh. Didn’t need those mental images, Sporto.”

“Now you know how it feels, jackass.” 

Brian banged his forehead on the tabletop. At the booth behind theirs, Josh leaned over the top of the ripped lycra and asked, “Hey! You guys got more ketchup here?”

The Brainiac wordlessly passed the bottle over while the Sport and the Criminal bickered. Claire was dodging flinging mashed potato. Jackie and Allison were quietly discussing the latest episode of “Twin Peaks”. In the other booth, Josh was squirting a mound of ketchup on his plate while he and his boyfriend conversed in German. 

Brian had to smile fondly. Amidst all this chaos, they could at least find a moment to just be young and stupid together. 

**  
Seeing as they didn’t need to be at the courthouse until late afternoon, and it was still lovely outside, Claire and John decided to take Danielle out to the park after all. When her husband asked her, absent-mindedly whilst he shoved snack after snack into a basket, which park she figured—Jefferson, Millennium, or the one just outside—Claire blanched at the mere notion of even approaching Millennium Park again. Not this soon. Sometimes, she saw the place in her dreams, in her nightmares, as she relived that horrible day over and over again in R.E.M. sleep. From where she’d stood on the sidewalk in front of that sandwich shop, she had an essential view of the park’s entrance. It had been the last thing she’d glimpsed before that Dodge came roaring toward her and her world went black.

Now, the image of those gently swaying oak trees, the wrought iron gated entrance, and the pristine lake just beyond sent her heart to palpitating whilst triggering her upchuck reflex. 

John realized his mistake almost as soon as the words were out, stricken, and apologized profusely—not characteristic of him at all, but the guy looked as horrified as she felt. Claire shook herself out of it for his sake, smiled haltingly, and patted his cheek. They would just go to the park behind the building today…but stay the hell away from the playground. That place, too, brought up agonizing memories for Claire.

They chose a spot near the entrance, beneath a fat orange tree. John unfolded and spread out their extra flannel blanket while Claire began unloading the contents of the basket—California turkey club sandwiches (gourmet from Mariano’s, naturally), cans of Coke, two full bags of chips, a pouch of mini Chips Ahoy, five Slim Jims, a bag of M&Ms, and a box of Yodels. This, along with Danielle’s pureed fruit cocktail. Claire shook her head and unbuckled the baby from her stroller whilst John fumbled for the sandwich like he hadn’t eaten in a week. 

‘Least he’s not Andy.’ He and Allison must’ve rung up a helluva grocery bill every month.

While they ate—John on his second bag of chips—Claire watched Danielle, sprouting red hair shining in the sunlight. Along with the green t-shirt and white overalls she’d put her in that morning, she wore a wide, gummy smile as she played with her dragon toy. There sat the picture of innocence. There sat the very reason Claire was putting herself through all this. There sat her world, bathed in a ring of incandescent mid-afternoon sunlight, pointing at one of the waddling ducks emerging from the lake and giggling. 

Claire smiled and hurriedly stopped her before the mobile infant could crawl closer to the lake. “No, honey. Can’t go in there, okay?”

“Maybe she thinks she has gills,” John mumbled around a mouthful of potato chips. “She’s the second coming of Aquaman. Aquababy.” 

Claire snorted in amusement while Danielle tugged at the sapphire heart pendant John had given her for her birthday last year. Sighing, she deposited herself against the trunk of the orange tree, the baby in her lap now gnawing on her own fist. The Princess glanced down at the delicate gold watch she wore. “We have about forty minutes before we have to go back up.”

The Wheel O’ Dani had landed on Brian and Jackie today. The Brainiacs of their group were supposed to be there at 2:50. Jackie had sounded delighted on the phone. Brian, on the other hand, was terrified. 

John gazed at his own waterproof stopwatch and groaned. “Your folks are testifying today, aren’t they?”

Absently, Claire nodded, biting her lip. “Daddy goes first, I think.”

“Is it bad that I’m kind of looking forward to watching that other guy grill your ma? Because I am.” John took a vicious bite of a cookie. “That’s if she doesn’t bite his head off first.”

Claire’s halfhearted laugh quickly turned into a moan as she buried her face in her hands. She sensed him approaching her and touched one hand to her shoulder—thankfully not the one clasping the cookie to his chest. “I know this is all a pain in the ass—“ 

“It’s more than that,” she interrupted, lifting her head. “It’s…” ‘Soul-sucking? Mind-numbing? Torturous?’ All of these adjectives rightly described having to endure this, this literal trial, but none of them seemed accurate enough to precisely portray the feeling of utter helplessness she experienced as she sat there listening to her attempted killer’s—and father-in-law’s—attorney endeavor to get him off for running her down. This…this putting *everything* into the hands of someone else, it consumed and scared her. 

“Okay,” John conceded with a nod. “It’s more than a pain in the ass, it’s Hell. If I have to force myself to sit there when every nerve-ending is urging me to leap the gate and strangle my old man, I can only imagine what it’s like for you, Princess. And you *know* I’m the last one to say ‘Trust the law’ but…trust the law. McCallister knows what he’s doing. Your dad’s gonna see to it that *my dad* rots in prison for a long time.” 

After a beat, he punctuated that words with an ill-humored laugh. “Jesus, that’s not a fucked up statement or anything.” 

Claire squeezed the hand resting on his folded-up leg. She’d never truly considered how messed up their family situation was, she had to admit. Claire was literally battling her own father-in-law in court, the same father-in-law who’d almost succeeded in killing her. Her mother-in-law, meanwhile, had only recently resumed being a fixture in her son’s life…after fleeing from that “shithouse,” as John called it, on Shermer’s southside. Where the average homeowner’s yearly income totaled up to what her father made in two days. 

It had to be a bit surreal for John, too. With a simple “I do” the richest family in Shermer became his own. His mother-in-law despised the ground on which he trod while his father-in-law was richer than God. And his brother-in-law…well, it was rather quite surprising how similar he and Josh were. 

And bridging that humongous gap? The squirming infant sitting in her lap, chewing on the ear of a stuffed dragon. *She* was the common thread. *She* had made John and Claire…John&Claire. 

All because she’d happened to fall in Saturday detention with a boy who both infuriated and intrigued her in equal measure. 

‘…Maybe not “just happened.”’ It would’ve been likely, no matter what day the punishment fell on, that any detention would be shared with John Bender. Andy may have assumed that *Brian* lived in the library that day, but John was way more familiar with the place than any of them. And certainly not because he was a bookworm. 

Claire smiled down at her baby, giddily talking gibberish while playing with her dragon. She kissed the infant’s wiry hair, then, after a second, leaned over and softly kissed John’s slightly stubbly cheek, as well. 

Surprised, amusedly wearing much the same flabbergasted visage he’d sported that day in the closet at the end of detention, he asked her what that was for.

She shrugged and slowly rose to her feet with Danielle in her arms. “Just a thank you.”

He continued to bore the adorably bemused expression whilst he followed her back to the car.

**  
“The prosecution calls Richard Standish to the stand.”

Predictably, the rows behind his, and even the very few spectators on his old man’s side of the courtroom, muttered and whispered to themselves as John’s father-in-law rose to his feet and gracefully slid out of the bench. Expressionless, the redheaded man crossed the courtroom to the stand, every eye in the room on him. The stares of his dad, as well as his lawyer, proved the sharpest.   
That Drake guy calmly folded his hands atop the desk, his visage unreadable. John narrowed his eyes. 

Rich was sworn in, swearing to tell the whole truth on a Bible, and given leave to sit. Mr. McCallister trod closer to the bench, on which rested that same squat microphone. “Mr. Standish, can you please state for the record what your relationship is to my client?”

Next to him, Claire’s brother scoffed. “Like there’s anyone in this courtroom—hell, in Chicago—that doesn’t know she’s his kid.” 

John concurred. ‘If they hadn’t known before,’ he thought, picturing some of the many headlines written about his wife. ‘They certainly do now, if they’ve ever been to a grocery store.’

Claire’s parents weren’t originally going to testify, but McCallister figured that the world watching Richard Standish, *the* Richard Standish, speaking for the prosecution and defending his daughter would stir ripples. Whether the team liked it or not, public opinion mattered quite a bit in deciding legal outcomes. Especially in trials that were televised.

Rich cleared his throat, the sound echoing off the walls of the courtroom. When his father-in-law was about to open his mouth, the drop of a pin could be heard elsewise. “Claire Standish is my daughter. My *only* daughter.” 

Josh spoke in his ear again. “Unless Dad had a torrid affair with Greta.” 

John choked back his guffaw. At the end of the bench, Nora glared at him.

‘So what else is new?’

“You are a character witness in particular, Mr. Standish,” the prosecutor said pointedly before Drake could scream “Objection!” and question the relevance of his testimony. “Can you, for the court, describe for us what Claire Standish was like as a child?”

On the other side of the room, seated next to his old man, Drake did not look happy. He seemed to be more annoyed than his father was, even. 

A fond smile crept across Rich’s slightly lined and freckled face. “She was lovely. She *is* lovely. As a child, it was quite easy to pacify her. Just give her her favorite pink panda toy—“ 

John wholly recalled that pink panda toy. 

“—and she was golden. Claire smiled a lot. She had the prettiest, most adorable smile.” 

Back at the table, the Claire of today broke out in a wide grin. Never failed to make his heart go ka-THUMP. It was a deadly, disarming accessory, that smile. 

“She was a gem,” Rich continued. “Claire and my son, her brother, always got along. I never had any real problems with her, no issues at school—“ 

‘Aside from that one Saturday detention you couldn’t get her out of, Rich.’ Not that *he* was complaining. 

“—aside from the occasional call home for a dress code violation,” he finished, chuckling. In response, the galley and the jury tittered. “Public schools and teenagers, you know.” 

It was too bad John hadn’t met Claire outside some fancy-schmancy private school (outside because there was no way his folks would’ve been able to afford tuition to send him to one himself; hell, he was surprised they’d remembered to enroll him at Shermer). His Princess dolled up in one of those Catholic schoolgirl uniforms…yeah, he could definitely get into that.

“I admit that I was a bit…overindulgent,” Rich admitted with an atypical sheepish grin. “She was my only little girl. You can’t fault a father.”

Josh snorted. “Yeah, that’s why Claire got away with everything, and Dad never believed me over her. ‘Your sister would never intentionally flood the toilet by throwing Legos down the drain, to your room, Joshua!’” 

His brother-in-law was killing him today. 

On the far right side of the courtroom, all twelve members of the jury broke up in simultaneous “Awwws”. 

‘Rich really knows how to work a crowd.’

“And when she left to live here in the city,” McCallister went on. “How did that feel for you?”

Mr. Standish shrugged. “Well, I was worried, of course. Crime is pretty rampant in Chicago, after all. But what was I to do? She was a legal adult and got into school at U of C. So, I arranged for her to live in a building on the northside with top-notch security. For years, the only issue she had was a neighbor taking her parking space.”

That “neighbor” was none other than Mrs. Lowing. 

“And then…” Rich went on, sighing, his face bare, allowing the inner turmoil he’d experienced those terrible days when Claire was…under. 

McCallister nodded. “Go on. How did you receive the news? Of what happened on May the 17th?”

John’s father-in-law exhaled once more, the sound reverberating and amplified through the microphone. He raked one hand through his thick red hair. “I was at work. I’m…always at work. I was in the Sears Tower that day.” Rich owned quite a few companies at his disposal, and at least one of them was located in the Sears Tower, the world’s tallest building. “I was on the phone with a client. A very *renown* man in Chicago.” Ted Turner, naturally. “My secretary barged in without buzzing first. I had told her expressly that I could not be disturbed during that phone call unless it was an emergency. I was angry…until she informed me that, ahm, Claire’s boyfriend—who is now my son-in-law—was on the other line…” 

Bender felt his eyes flutter shut, his mind harkening back to that day against his own volition, against his very blood screaming at him to keep as many details of May 17th blocked from his consciousness as possible. *He* was the one who’d called Rich, once Claire was rushed into surgery and once he, standing in the OR waiting room, managed to reorient himself with his surroundings. With what had happened. With how a day that had begun so innocuously transformed into the defining chapter before his eyes. From that moment forward, his life became bisected—before the crash and after. Every measure from that day on would be mentally catalogued in his brain as “after”. 

Sporto had offered to call the man for him, but while John appreciated it, he knew that Rich had to hear it from him. *He* had to be the one to break the news to one of the few people he respected that his only daughter had been in an *accident*…perpetuated by his own father. 

It hadn’t seemed right otherwise. He was feeling like a gigantic pile of human garbage; the least he could’ve done was inform Claire’s father himself.

At the time, when Mr. Standish arrived, he was totally prepared to take the man’s wrath. He deserved it and more. It was *his* fault Claire was there, holding onto dear life inside a bloodied and broken body. But, once again, the guy surprised him. Rich hadn’t placed blame on anyone but the doer of such an evil deed—the asshole sitting just a few paces before him now.

John’s eyes glared daggers into his old man’s back, picturing real blades digging through the bright orange of his jumpsuit, through skin, through muscle and bone. Puncturing a vital organ. His lungs, his heart…that was the only way the shit could experience what John had on May 17th. The sense of not being able to catch precious oxygen, of one’s heart getting cut out of one’s chest. 

He had expected Rich’s anger, his hatred. Shit, he welcomed it. Yet, his ire was saved for the man who would be his in-law. 

John’s eyelids popped open as McCallister asked Mr. Standish about Claire’s condition. 

“She was out for nearly four days,” he explained, his façade a mask of calm that John could see was straining and crumbling before his eyes. There was a distinct catch in his throat as he went on, one that was contagious. John felt the knot forming at the base of his esophagus. “Her leg was broken. She was bloodied and bruised. She had a huge cast on her leg, and the doctor said the longer she was out…” 

Sniffles could be heard throughout the galley. Even Nora managed to break through her many Botox injections and form an actual expression. Before him at the table, Claire’s shoulders were tense, very tense, and he yearned to reach out and rub them until she felt better. 

Rich continued with a clearing of the throat. “Thank God she awoke. Just with some whiplash and her leg broken in a few places.” At once, Richard’s visage morphed from heart-rendering to vicious and terrifying. Glaring icicles at his old man and his piece of shit lawyer, he added, “*You*. You will NOT get away with this, mark my words. I will use all my power to make sure you rot in prison for the rest of your natural existence, you scum! You fucking monster. You *trash*!” 

On the right side of the room, his old man smirked. 

McCallister rested and a muscle in Bender’s jaw flexed as Drake approached the bench in a casual stroll, like it was a fucking Sunday in the park. “Mr. Richard Standish. An honor.” One of Drake’s hands rose to his chest, splayed condescendingly over his heart. 

Mr. Standish retained his cool aloofness. “I cannot say the same, sir.”

Drake just chuckled, and John hated him all the more. “Understandable. I know you are just a mere character witness—“

Rich sat up straighter on the stand, and everyone in the front row imitated him. 

“—so all you can tell me is about your daughter’s background,” he went on, turning around and gesturing widely to where Claire sat, causing her to also straighten. John wrapped both hands around the gate in front of him, his knuckles converting from red to white. “Lovely girl, your daughter. Pretty. Popular. A new mother.” Spinning back around, he regarded his father-in-law with a quirked eyebrow. “No problems in school, yes?”

Mr. Standish crossed his arms over his chest. “Absolutely not.”

“Hmm,” the prick murmured again, traversing back to the desk, sliding off a piece of paper, and returning to the bench whilst he perused it. “Well. That certainly seems the case until her junior year.”

The two hands on the gate tightened. Nora glared down the bench at him, knowing where this was headed. 

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Mr. Drake,” Rich said, a hint of menace behind his unruffled words. 

Drake ignored him, still reading from the printout. ‘It must be a copy of Claire’s permanent record.’ He knew how the asshole had managed to get ahold of *that*.

‘Fucking Dick.’

“Mostly As, some Bs, a C here and there,” Drake intoned. “No real incidents. Other than the aforementioned dress code violations, of course.” Here, he smiled—as though having an intimate conversation with a friend. “Then…March of junior year. Ms. Standish got Saturday detention, isn’t that right? Skipped class to go shopping?”

Claire twitched in her seat. Rich remained as cool as ever. “She was a teenager, Mr. Drake. How many people can say that they never skipped class as teenagers? Can *you*?”

The galley murmured. John watched the proceedings with eyes like blades. 

Drake chuckled, the little rat. John envisioned himself leaping over the gate and beating his squirrely face silly. “Touché, Mr. Standish. It’s not the detention, per se, that caught my attention. It’s what followed after.”

Rich’s jaw clenched. Drake spun around once more to address the galley, reading off from the printout in his hands. “Lots of infractions here, and so suddenly, too. More skipped classes—“ 

That wasn’t fair; Claire had only skipped a few more times with him. Once to drag him kicking and screaming to the GD doctor’s on her health insurance after his old man kicked the crap out of him the night before. 

“—caught smoking and drinking on school property—“

Once. After school under one of the few trees Shermer’s campus boasted. And she’d fucking hated his beer.

“—caught, ahem, ‘having relations’ on school property—“ 

John rolled his eyes. ‘”Having relations” my ass.’ It was just making out, for fuck’s sake. Anything, eh, more than that, they’d never once been found out. ‘Right under Dick’s nose. Dumbass.’ 

“—caught spray-painting *graffiti* on school property—“ 

‘It was a prank!’ It was his idea, she’d just…contributed. And it was against a pervert teacher Dick refused to fire until her old man stepped in. 

“That was due to a teacher acting inappropriately with my daughter,” Rich all but ground out, and John nearly threw up his hands in salutation. “The idiot principal wouldn’t get rid of the man, so she and her friends played a little prank. I am nothing if not proud of her.” 

On the prosecution’s side, Claire and McCallister shared grins. John rested his head back against the bench. 

“Hmm,” the shithead murmured again—infuriatingly. John was certain he did that just to piss them all off all the more. “Be that as it may, Ms. Standish’s…mindset seemed to abruptly change after that detention. What was the variable?”

By his tone, he damn well knew what the “variable” was. 

Rich did not answer at first, and Judge Stevens—reluctantly, it seemed—bade him to do so. “Please answer the question, Richard.”

Exhaling through his nose, the man bit, “That is when my daughter met her boyfriend.”

More muttering among the galley. Again, Nora glowered daggers down at him. 

Josh and his ma, at least, cringed in empathy. 

Drake was returning to the table to retrieve another piece of paper. “I see. That same ‘boyfriend’ who is now her husband, correct?” Rich didn’t need to confirm, and the asshole continued. “With a small child, to boot. Both are only a few years removed from that behavior. I would wonder how someone who—“ He glanced down at the first printout. “—was spotted running through the gymnasium naked would manage to care for an infant at such a young age.”

Also not fair! They’d taken a swim in the school’s pool, and Michelle Manning snatched their clothes! John hadn’t minded at all—he’d walk around stark ass naked all damn day if he wouldn’t get arrested for it—but Claire was horrified. 

“Objection!” McCallister’s voice rang out, the man himself bent halfway over the table, his face colored red with rage. “Your Honor—“ 

“No further questions,” Drake chirped and returned to his old man’s side. 

John was seething. Trapped in a haze of rage. 

And then—

“Councilor McCallister, your next witness?”

“The prosecution calls Nora Standish to the stand.”

‘Oh, fucking great.’  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: "You wanna have a miserable, frustrating life?" Mr. Horowitz to Josh when Josh said he wanted to check out environmental law in Clueless. 
> 
> Note 2: You wanna watch a series about corruption in the legal system, check out "Penny Dreadful: City of Angels" on Showtime. The finale just aired. This iteration takes place in 1938 Los Angeles and is based on stories of that time, in that locale. It's maddening. And really frigging good. Nathan Lane is in it and we all know Nathan Lane can do no wrong.
> 
> Note 3: Oberyn Martell may have won over the Mountain with a trial by Monopoly instead of combat. Ye Olde Westerosi Mynopolie. 
> 
> Note 4: That Neil DeGrasse Tyson meme was created with Bender in mind, I'm certain. 
> 
> Note 5: Assault like that, against a student committed by a teacher, definitely wouldn't have been taken as seriously as it is today in the 80s.


	50. Chapter 49: You Can't Handle the Truth! (Part 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, I can't believe this already has fifty chapters lol. And it started out as a one shot. I should know myself better. My pacing problems can rival Stephen King's.
> 
> If there was a little delay it's because I've been looking for a new place. The pandemic and self-isolation was announced JUST when I was about to move and it all fell through. So I'm stuck with my parents. MY PARENTS. Gah, I'm 33 and it feels like I'm fourteen again. "Don't do it THAT way, do it THIS way!" "Why didn't youse make yah bed this morning, huh?!" "Oy gevalt, can ya please change yah verkakte sheet?" "Ma, I just changed it two days ago." "Don't youse tawk back to your mother!" Now you know where I got the inspo for Mrs. Johnson.

Chapter 49: You Can't Handle the Truth! (Part 4)

Andy groaned beneath his breath as Nora Standish clambered out of the bench—carefully in her sky-high shoes—dressed in some crazy neon yellow power suit. Claire would say it clashed horribly with her hair. 

Between the yellow suit with the huge shoulder pads, the big pink hat, and the deep red lipstick, she kinda looked like a clown. But she stood tall as she approached the stand, was sworn in on a Bible, and daintily lowered herself inside the bench. It was no secret that Nora spat upon Bender every chance she got, so every member of the Club—and moreso—were holding their collective breath whilst she adjusted herself and coolly rested her talons atop the podium. 

Even Mr. McCallister approached Nora cautiously, as though she were a tiger or something. She couldn’t have made a decent impression on him the other night.

Nora identified herself as Claire’s mother before the prosecutor could ask her to do so and crossed her legs at the knee. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Standish,” Mr. McCallister said, clearing his throat. He looked…uncertain. Across the room, a yard in front of Andy and Allison, Mr. Drake’s posture was relaxed and weirdly expectant. “Could you tell us where you were the day of May 17th?” 

Mrs. Standish did not miss a beat. “I was at home, of course. I don’t work.” Andy didn’t think Nora had worked a day in her life. “In Shermer. We live on Sycamore Avenue.” 

Beside him, Andy’s wife snerked. Andy himself minutely shook his head. ‘As if anyone in this courtroom would care.’ Living above Sycamore, in Shermer, was akin to residing above Sunset in Beverly Hills; it was *the* fashionable address in town. But this was *Chicago*. No one was going to be awed by her address here. ‘Maybe if she lived on the Magnificent Mile.’ 

Mr. McCallister once more cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Standish,” he said again. “Please do go on. Were you doing anything of note that day?”

Nora scoffed into the microphone as if offended. “Well, of course I was! I was entertaining guests—my girlfriends, Jessica McKee, Linda McDonough, Donna Ives, Zinnia Wormwood, and Katie Bueller.” 

In the row behind his, Ferris Bueller cringed for his mother’s sake. 

“We were simply taking in the air out on the patio,” Nora continued, referencing the Standishes’ enormous backyard verandah. “I’d had our private tender make frozen margaritas.” 

‘Private bartender,’ Andy thought incredulously. He hadn’t even known those existed. 

“When I got that horrible phone call,” Mrs. Standish finished, performing a show of visibly shuddering. The woman had missed her calling as a soap opera actress. 

“And who called you?” McCallister asked, his tone patient. 

“Richard, my husband,” Nora replied. “Obviously, I got right in my car and drove to Shermer General. My husband was already there. And…my daughter’s paramour.” 

‘Paramour?’ In the row in front of him, a muscle in Bender’s cheek jumped. 

At McCallister’s bidding, Mrs. Standish described Claire’s physical condition upon reaching the hospital. How she’d been in emergency surgery for six hours as her team of doctors managed to staunch the blood flow, set her leg, which had been broken in the femur, patella, and tibia, and wrap it in a “very large, very cumbersome” blue cast. Then, still under the effects of anesthesia, she was moved to the recovery room and, once it wore off, was brought into the ICU. There she remained unconscious for nearly four days, only wakening at “some godforsaken hour” of the night…with her “paramour” by her side. 

“We received a call sometime in the wee hours of the morning,” Nora added, sighing. “It was Claire, and we were *so* relieved. She said she was in *great* pain and she couldn’t walk.”

Andy’s lips flattened. Claire wouldn’t have told her mother, of all people, that she was in *great* pain, he knew that much. 

McCallister crossed back to his table—where Claire was seated watching her mother’s testimony with a critical eye—opened a manila folder, and produced…what looked to be a photograph.  
Returning to the bench, the prosecutor brandished the color photograph for the judge, and then the galley, to observe. “I submit Exhibit B. Claire Standish’s condition, just how Mrs. Standish described.” 

There was a low collective gasp—from the left side of the courtroom, anyway. There Claire was, unconscious, lying prone and vertical on a starchy, sterilized hospital bed, her head wrapped in a thick gauze bandage, her leg encased in that cast, wires and tubes sticking out of her body, bruised and bloodied. Andy winced. Though he had seen this all firsthand, quite a few times over those four days, the still image was somehow all the more distressing. 

Bender’s face had gone from beige to corpse white in two seconds. Ally looked like she was going to throw up right in his lap, and Josh in *John’s* lap. And Claire, seated alone at the prosecution desk, had straightened and was noticeably shaking. She had never glimpsed a picture of herself taken right after the crash. The picture brought back horrid memories best left untouched for *them*, but for *her*, she was seeing her battered and bloody self for the first time.

Once McCallister had sufficiently shocked and nauseated the spectators, he handed the picture to the foreman, who tried to remain neutral but evidently couldn’t contain his distress, then wordlessly passed it around the jury. 

McCallister spun to face Mrs. Standish again. “About how long has her recovery been?”

Nora hesitated a second. “It’s still ongoing. She’s needed both in-patient and out-patient rehabilitation. Her recovery has progressed enough so that she only requires being seen once a week. But, if you ask me, it’s still once a week too often.” 

Claire actually went to rehab once every two weeks now. But whatever.

“It’s horrible, it stays with you,” Nora continued, crocodile tears dripping down her cheeks. Mr. McCallister produced a handkerchief, which she used to blot her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. “To see your child like that. I just…” 

More dramatic waterworks. Andy rolled his eyes, seeing right through the performance. Claire, too, appeared slightly less than amused. 

“My apologies,” Mrs. Standish said, fanning both sides of her face with her manicured talons. “I do not mean to become a basketcase.”

To his right, Allison scoffed. “Yeah, that’s my job,” she whispered, and Andy smothered a smirk. 

“No apologies necessary, Mrs. Standish,” the prosecutor assured the “tear-stained” woman. “Perhaps you, for the record, can clarify some of Mr. Drake’s—“ He regarded the lawyer shark over his shoulder—deliberately, Andy figured. “—alleged ‘bad behavior?’ That is, if you feel up to it.”

Drake jumped up from his seat in an instant. “Objection! Your Honor, it isn’t alleged. It’s typed on the official permanent record for Claire Standish, Shermer High, September 1981 to June 1985.”

Andy thought he saw Judge Stevens, that imposing man in flowing black robes hovering above everyone else in the judge’s podium, roll his eyes like an annoyed teenager. “Semantics, Mr. Drake.” The judge’s dark eyes glanced down at Mr. McCallister. “Councilor McCallister, please refrain from using ‘alleged’ in the future. Regarding this particular instance.” 

McCallister agreed, and Drake sank back into his seat, a triumphant smile on his weasel’s face. 

“Well,” Nora began, pursing her lips. “I can definitely confirm that my daughter’s little prank was on a teacher who was acting terribly inappropriate with her. I believe he was in algebra, not Claire’s strong suit. We Standish women are not known for our prowess in math. She innocently asked for help, and he used that against her, the horrid man.”

Andy nodded, actually agreeing with Nora Standish. He’d borne witness to all that shit, he could confirm it. 

“As for the other, ahem, instances of questionable behavior—“ Mrs. Standish blinked her spidery blue eyes. “—she was a *teenager*. Show me the teen who has never done anything absurd. Please.” A scoff. “Why, when I was seventeen, my friends and I would throw bonfires and drink ourselves silly on school property every weekend.” 

Mr. McCallister rested, and Drake strolled up to the bench to take his place. In Andy’s mind, strings of green ooze dripped from his fingers, and his teeth were sharpened to fangs. There existed a twinkle in his eye that he did not particularly like. 

Drake had a manila folder clutched loosely in his hands; he was studying the contents therein as he approached. “Mrs. Standish, a query. Is the boy—excuse me, the man—who was your daughter’s boyfriend at the time in question, who is now her husband, here in this courtroom today?”

Directly before him, Andy watched as Bender’s fingers formed a tight fist, and he nervously raked a hand through his hair. 

Expressionless, Nora nodded. And pointed him out for the record. 

Drake cleared his throat. “Isn’t it true that this young man is the son of my own client?”

Once again, Mrs. Standish nodded, her perfectly plucked eyebrows giving her a weird sinister appearance. Like Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford in “Mommie Dearest”. ‘No wire hangers.’ If he weren’t so tense, his pulse fluttering beneath his skin, Andy would’ve chortled picturing Nora Standish waving around a satin hanger with her face smudged in a eucalyptus masque. 

“Indeed,” she said, her voice as cool and composed as it ever was.

In the front row, the muscles of the Criminal’s arms and neck bulged as he grew more and more overwrought. Andy reached over and patted him on the shoulder, and Josh, beside him, muttered something in his ear he couldn’t discern. Whatever it was, it seemed to calm him, just a bit. 

At Nora’s confirmation of Bender’s parentage, the galley erupted in surprised mumbles. Andy didn’t know why anyone was shocked. The dude was Jake Bender’s mirror image—his much *younger* mirror image. Probably fitter, too. The asshole looked like a feather could knock him over.

Drake was not finished. He lifted his eyes from the folder in his hands to regard Mrs. Standish directly. “And isn’t it *also* true that my client and his son have never had, shall we say, a quintessential relationship?”

Claire whispered something in her lawyer’s ear, her eyes narrowed in what Andy knew to be her “I’m about to explode” façade, and Mr. McCallister bobbed his head once and stood at attention. “Objection! Your Honor, my client’s husband is not the one on trial here. Nor is he being questioned at current.”

Drake’s lips compressed into a line. “But *my* client is. And Ms. Standish’s husband is very connected to the accused.”

“Accused? There is no ‘accused’! *Your* client is guilty. The trial’s to determine whether he’s guilty by premeditation or insanity!”

“*Temporary* insanity. And I’ll have you know, Mr. McCallister—“ 

Andy, and Allison to his right, jerked in simultaneous jumps as Judge Stevens banged his gavel. “Order! There will be no more of this; the courtroom is not the soundstage of a soap opera, in spite of the cameras.” Glancing down at Nora, he added, “Mrs. Standish, please answer the question.”

At the prosecution table, Claire’s gaze narrowed all the more. Bender crossed his arms over his chest. 

“It is, yes,” Nora replied. “I don’t know the specifics, but I do know that much. They’ve never gotten on. The boy would come to our home at all hours of the night to avoid his father.” 

Bender winced. ‘He and Claire must’ve thought they were being more subtle.’ But John was about as “subtle” as an elephant in a tchotchke shop. 

Drake went on, a gleeful note in his tone that Andy didn’t miss. Couldn’t miss. And, judging by her half-lidded stare, his wife didn’t either. “And, furthermore, isn’t it true that the whole reason we are here today is because of him?”

This time, John’s entire complexion blanched as white as curdled milk. Allison made a sound of distress. 

As for Andy himself, he was caught between the urge to puke and jump over the gate to show Mr. Drake some of his erstwhile wrestling moves. Personally. Using the defense lawyer as a test dummy.

At the query, the first sign of…something…flickered across Nora’s face. It was difficult to determine underneath all that Botox, but it was definitely there. “I…” 

Drake hurried on, adding onto his “question”. “That he was so obsessively angry with his father that he, and he alone, arranged this, which contributed to my client's delicate mental state?”

Now, it was Claire’s turn to gasp in shocked outrage. She rose from the table and called out, before McCallister had a chance to do so himself, “That is NOT true! That is not true at all!”

Mr. McCallister clambered out of his seat to join his client. “Objection!”

Judge Stevens slammed his gavel atop the dais twice. “Order, order!”

The prosecutor was seething, looking almost as furiously enraged as they all felt. Ally’s dark eyes had broadened to the size of tea saucers. Andy was seeing red. Claire appeared as though she was about to leap over the table and beat both Drake and his shithead client to death with her cast. 

Bender, meanwhile, seemed absolutely, wholly sick. 

Drake, that horrendous buttmunch, went further, his hands braced on the edge of the bench before Mrs. Standish, leaning further over with every word, and patently ignoring Mr. McCallister’s objection. “Jonhnathon Bender was so angry at his father that he was capable of doing anything, even arranging my client to hurt—possibly kill—your daughter, his fiancée at the time. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Standish?”

The objections from the galley grew louder. Ferris, Cameron, and Sloane had risen from their bench and were shouting. Eleanor was pulling her hair out. Stubbie was the color of puce. Ty was only held back from storming up to the lawyer himself by Megan’s calming touch. Josh’s jaw was unhinged in horror and fury. Mr. Standish comforted Mrs. Bender as she cried.

And still, John remained as white as a sheet. He looked like someone had smacked him—not with a dead fish but a dead whale. 

Nora Standish’s eyes dodged from side to side, corner to corner. “I…”

Drake’s hands tightened on the bench’s lip. “Isn’t it, Mrs. Standish?”

At the defensive table, Jake leaned back in his chair, an evident quirk about his thin, wormlike lips. 

Claire was starting to sob, too—angry, desperate sobs that tore at her throat over the cacophony of the infuriated courtroom. 

Mrs. Standish’s gaze flicked to her daughter, just for a moment, and there, right before Andy’s eyes, a veil appeared to lift from the woman’s face. A newfound strength, and a stubbornness he recognized in Claire, entered her eyes. 

Her stare was measured whilst she glared down Drake. “No, that is *not* true! That is not even broaching the territory of true!” 

The courtroom went silent. From outrage to pin-drop quiesence, Andy could pinpoint it to the second. 

Drake notably reared back, as though he had not been anticipating a negative response. His obvious surprise revealed itself in his stuttering reply. “E—excuse me, Mrs. Standish? Could you please repeat that?”

Nora Standish pursed her red lips, regarding Drake with that same cool disdain she had perfected a long time ago. “I said that is patently false, Mr. Drake. He would *never*!”

Andy squeezed Allison’s trembling hand in his lap. Claire slowly—very slowly—sank down in her chair. Bender opened eyes that had been screwed shut and were now twin UFOs in his face. 

Mrs. Standish exhaled. “Listen. I am no fan of my son-in-law—“ 

“Yeah, no kidding,” John muttered beneath his breath, though shock was still evident in his expression. 

“—but I am not impaired,” she continued. “It is plain as day that the boy adores my daughter. As well as my granddaughter. He would *never* have committed such an act. And furthermore, Mr. Drake—“ Here, she slowly ascended to a standing position, steadying both hands atop the bench, the fire in her gaze contradicting the icy cool of her demeanor. “—I wholly disapprove of you dragging my infant granddaughter into your…your vile justifications. An innocent child. You, young man, have no scruples, and it’s why your wife up and left you a year ago.”

Drake sucked in a long, audible breath of air. The galley, Ferris in particular, tittered in entertainment. 

Nora wasn’t done. “Oh, yes. I know her quite well. Margaret Whishaw, formerly Margaret Whishaw-Drake? We attend the same country club. There aren’t many secrets I am not privy to in the area around Shermer, and you, my *dear* Mr. Drake, are from Northbrook, are you not? I would be more careful if I were you. There is plenty more where your ex-wife came from. Your reputation would be in tatters.”

Andy gawked at Claire’s mother like a giant bird had just perched on top of her head. Allison’s jaw was nearly on the floor. 

For a minute, the only disturbance in the courtroom was the echo of John’s deadweight hand flopping noisily to his thigh. 

Broken only by Drake’s audible gulp. “N—no further questions, Your Honor.”

The defense attorney slunked back to the table, claiming his chair beside the now murderous-looking Jake Bender. Nora Standish wordlessly climbed out behind the bench and sauntered back to the front row while every pair of eyes in the room were attached to her form like magnets. 

Andy could hardly believe what had just happened. ‘Did Nora Standish just *defend* Bender? Am I high?’ 

“Ahem,” the judge coughed. “I believe we’ll take a recess. Court will resume in forty minutes. Adjourned.” 

The courtroom was dead silent whilst the judge climbed down from his podium and disappeared through the nearest door. Only Ferris managed to break thick hush that had befallen the galley.

“Holy shit!”  
**  
Much later, while they were driving home, Claire was still mind-boggled over…what her mother had done today. Nora Standish, the woman who’d exerted a significant amount of effort trying to make her son-in-law’s life with Claire as uncomfortable and awkward as possible, hoping to ultimately lay an insurmountable wedge between them—who had only ever been remotely pleasant to him when she was hoping to gain something for herself…had *defended* him against Jake Bender’s lawyer. And more to the point, she’d given Mr. Drake the ultimate dress-down. 

Though her testimony had occurred hours before, it was the only part of the day’s trial appearance that flipped through her mind. She barely recalled what her father, the psychiatrist, and one of the witnesses to the crash had said. All she could focus on was her mother snarling over Drake like a dragon in her own right. 

At the time, it had taken Claire a few minutes to get her bearings. During the recess, she endeavored to approach the woman in yellow, but Nora remained on her cellular phone the whole time as she berated…someone. It was only at the commencement of recess that she discovered it was Drake himself. 

According to her mother, whom Claire had managed to approach at the end of the day, Drake had sought her out a week ago with the specific goal in mind of diverting blame on her husband. 

“At first, I was all for it,” her mom didn’t hesitate to admit, causing Claire’s hackles to rise in response. “Get him out of the way and all that. But then…well…I thought about it over the next seven days. I suppose it wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t be responsible for putting an innocent man in *jail*. I do have *some* morals, despite what you all may think.”

Claire blinked. Yeah, admittedly, she *had* thought her mother incapable of seeing beyond herself and what she deemed optimal for others—which always served to make herself look good. Who could blame her? The Princess grew up under the same roof with the same woman, had witnessed and been on the receiving end of her selfish behavior more times than she could conceivably count. Claire had written her off as simply a momentous narcissist long ago. It was extraordinary and befuddling, after twenty-two years, to discover that she had a conscience after all. 

A small one. But a conscience all the same. 

“Besides,” Nora continued, waving one manicured hand in a vague gesture. “He’s family now, isn’t he? We don’t turn our backs on family. Haven’t I always taught you that?”

‘Uh. Well, yeah.’ But she never in a million zillion years would’ve reckoned her mother considering John as such. Danielle, yes. But John...

Claire gazed down at her flats. She idly took note of the slight scuff on the toes, her favorite velour Chanel flats, and knew she would have to throw them out. “Um, you had the chance to…’get him out of the way’ as you put it.” Glancing away from the shoes, the Princess met her mother’s stare, regarding her cautiously. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this situation yet. “But you didn’t take it. Why?”

Her mother produced a rather unladylike snort, very uncharacteristic of her. “Oh, please, Claire. It wouldn’t have mattered if that boy was imprisoned in a Siberian gulag; you’d find some way to see him.” 

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know *you*,” Nora Standish explained, looking a wee bit annoyed that she needed to clarify this. “You’re as stubborn as they come. In that respect, you’re just like me. Where do you think you got it from? Not your father, that’s for sure.” 

Claire felt her lips stretching in a beam and, for the first time in who knew how long, leapt forward and engulfed her mother in a hug. Pissed as she was that Nora had entertained the insanity of pushing blame onto her husband’s shoulders, right now, she was just incredibly relieved that she hadn’t gone through with it. 

Nora hesitated a moment, seemingly bewildered, before placing her hands flat against her daughter’s back. Returning the sudden embrace the only way she knew how. “Oh, darling I—“ Pulling back, she glanced Claire up and down with that same critical eye she was quite familiar with. One hand tampered with the ends of her hair. “I believe you are getting some split ends. I shall make an appointment for you with Umberto. He’s the best.” 

Claire refrained from rolling her eyes—as if she could think about a haircut right now!—but acquiesced with a tight smile anyway. 

John, too, expressed his gratitude. Not meeting her mother’s eyes, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, he mumbled a “Thank you” while continuing to look awkward and tentative. Nora nodded once and said, “You can make it up to me by cutting your hair.”

Of course, John bristled at that suggestion, but only after Nora was gone, strutting her way toward Claire’s father’s BMW. Watching the car pull out of its parking space, he scoffed “Like hell!” and absently smoothed a hand down the back of his head.

Claire was secretly pleased. She rather liked his hair. 

When they arrived back home, Claire and John were welcomed by the curious scene of Brian racing out of Danielle’s nursery, the baby clutched loosely in both hands, clad in only a pink t-shirt dotted with what appeared to be pureed squash stains…and nothing else. Jackie, meanwhile, was sprawled on the living room carpet laughing, tears of mirth streaming down her cheeks.

In unison, John and Claire traded glances and quirked an eyebrow. Jackie, noticing that they were home, clambered to her stocking feet and huffed, “The baby…spit up…then *peed*…on Brian.”

John guffawed in merriment. Claire’s lips quirked as Brian sped out of the bathroom, Danielle still held half-naked in his grasp, clearly muttering “Gross, gross, gross, gross…” 

Shaking her head while her husband continued to chortle, his hand braced on the nearest wall, Claire followed the Brain into Danielle’s nursery, intent on rescuing him from the clutches of a 10-month-old. Rescuing that he plainly needed, as he was endeavoring to change Danielle’s bear-patterned diaper using one of her onesies. 

“Brian,” she sighed. “You know babies wear diapers.”

Brian Johnson did not glance up from his quest. “I couldn’t find any! You used them all! You had so many, and they’re all gone! How often does she *poop*?!”

Claire giggled at her friend’s obvious distress, crossed the nursery to the closet, and pulled an extra box of Pampers out of the din. “We have more in here.”

Brian slowly ceased fiddling with the onesie, which he’d been trying to tie into a sort of bow around Danielle’s hips. “W—well, how was I sup—supposed to know that?! I’m no mind-reader!” 

Once she changed Danielle’s diaper—using an actual *diaper*--Claire joined the others in the living room. John was still chuckling, laughter that picked up whenever he glanced at Brian’s pouting face, Jackie was putting on her sneakers, and Brian looked like someone had stolen his cookie. 

“Thanks again for watching her, guys,” Claire said, hefting a growing Danielle on her hip. 

“No problem,” Jackie replied while her boyfriend grumbled.

“Need a new shirt,” he muttered at the same time. John burst out laughing all over again. 

Later, a few hours after their babysitters for the day left, she and John were getting ready for bed. Danielle wouldn’t sleep because it was thundering so lay in the Bart Bassinet, and Claire was trying to ignore her husband gawking at her chest. ‘When I stop breast-feeding and these go down, he’s going to be sorely disappointed.’

John stood over the bassinet murmuring a goodnight to Danielle, fed Pete his grody weekly rat, then changed into his pajamas. Claire crawled under the covers and reached for her latest Harlequin, intent on getting through a chapter or two before bed. Instead of climbing in beside her, John sighed and perched on the end of the mattress. 

A chapter later and he still had not moved to join her. Claire folded down a corner of the next page and closed the book, her brow furrowed in concern. “John?”

He peeked at her over her shoulder, endeavoring a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Claire cast aside “Hearts Afire” and crawled across the bed to sit beside her ruminating husband. When John brooded, it was obvious. His forehead furrowed, his hair fell over his cheeks, and his posture slumped. It was a demeanor she’d gotten used to not glimpsing so often…but in these days after the crash, he’d been dwelling more than ever. 

“What’s going on?” she asked, dangling her legs off the end of the bed and curling a gentle hand around his shoulder. 

John shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “Just…thinkin’.”

“About what?”

Sighing, he lifted his head and stared at their reflection in the mirror opposite. Her concern evident and shining through. His gloomy façade bending him over nearly in half. “About…you know, what that asshole lawyer said to your ma.” 

Claire exhaled through her nose. She’d been afraid of this—and, really, had expected the response. Claire had spent so much time and energy trying to convince John that what happened was nowhere near his fault…only for that shithead attorney’s line of questioning to bring it all back. Like a tidal wave of crap. 

Scooting closer to him, she craned her head to stare into his face. “John, that was all bullshit! Even my *mother* said it was all bullshit. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not your fault.” A few silent beats passed, broken only by the sound of their breathing, and Claire prodded his jaw to make him look at her. “John, please!”

He turned to face her, finally, smiled fleetingly, and covered her hand with his much bigger one where it resided in her lap. “Sorry, sweets. I guess it all just…brought some shit back. I, uh, don’t mean to be a major bummer or anything.”

Claire’s responding smile was soft, placating. “You’re not a major bummer. I understand, John, I really do.” The hand slipped out from under his to palm his stubble-roughened cheek. “I can only imagine what it was like…seeing what you saw, that day and the ones after it…but *none* of it was your fault. It was all your father.” Her turn to shrug, shoulders hovering at her ears, Claire gazed down at her knees. “He would’ve targeted anyone. Anyone you were with. Anyone who was important to you.”

John sighed and ran a nervous hand through his hair. “I know. That’s why I feel responsible, Princess.” Tipping her chin with his finger, he added, “And you and Dani are the most important people in the world to me. So…he did a good fucking job.”

Claire rested her head on his shoulder. “Well…don’t,” she ordered, and he chuckled. “Because it was your father who did this, and your father alone.” Lifting her head and palming both sides of his face, she said, “And I’m okay now. Well, almost.”

“Thank *God*,” he exclaimed again. 

She kissed him, his lips soft and a bit dry, and then she crawled back over to the opposite side of the bed. “Let’s go to sleep, okay? Before Danielle wakes up and demands I feed her.”

Chuckling once more, John climbed under the blankets, turned off the bedside lamp, and tugged her to his side. He held her for the rest of the night.  
**

At this point in their friendship, Allison considered herself a pretty good connoisseur of one Claire Standish. Bender. Whatever. 

She intimately knew that narrow-eyed stare of hers meant that the world was about to implode. She knew when Claire was trying to get something out of any of them; the infamous pout and those fluttering lashes couldn’t get an inch out of *her* anymore but usually worked like a charm on John—she had him wrapped around her little finger. And, after months of pregnancy, she was quite aware when the girl was about to spew burrito chunks.

Claire tended to live life as “glass half-full”. Even during her initial convalescence, the Princess was still her same old self…just lying prone in bed. Now, however, Allison could plainly see that she wasn’t quite her usual Claire self. She was tired, drawn. Wan in the face. Permanently frowning. It wasn’t like her normal behavior at all. 

Following a prolonged needling at a café near her apartment—Claire’s apartment; the redhead didn’t so much enjoy going downtown anymore, understandably—Claire sat back in her chair, exhaled, and stirred her gigantic mug of caramel macchiato with a spoon. “It’s John. I’m worried about him, that’s all.”

“What’s wrong?” Ally asked around a mouthful of cherry Danish. Sprinkled with Lucky Charms marshmallows. Allison carried her own emergency box in her very large bag. “He run out of doobage? I can hook him up. One of my students deals hash. He tries to play all ‘Who, me?’ but I know he does. And he paints a lot better when he’s high.”

“Mm,” Claire murmured, sipping her coffee confection. It smelled like Christmas, from where Ally sat. “Like Andy Warhol?”

Allison shook her head and bit again into her Lucky Charms Danish. “He was on speed. Really made his stuff pop, though.”

“Priorities.”

“Exactly. It was the sixties; everyone was on something.”

Halfheartedly, the Princess snickered around her straw. She always drank her coffee through a straw. To avoid staining her teeth, she claimed. Brian once suggested that she just lower her caffeine intake, and Claire balked. “Even Mr. Rogers?”

Allison conceded that. “Probably not. Fred Rogers redefines straight-edge. His whole *life* is straight-edge. Or it better be because this is my childhood in the balance here.” 

“I liked ‘Captain Kangaroo’ better.” 

“Of course you did,” Ally said, rolling her eyes. “Traitor.” 

Claire laughed but quickly sobered. “No, he has enough weed, thanks. Which he *only* smokes out on the terrace or else face my wrath.” Allison guffawed, picturing John Bender scampering away from his wife like Speedy Gonzales. “When that asshole attorney questioned my mother…when he attempted to make it look like it was all John’s fault…I think it’s stayed with him. I keep trying to jerk him out of it, but it’s like…he’s been taken back a bunch of steps.” Claire crossed her arms over her pink sundress. “I *really* hate that Drake guy.”

Allison winced. Claire had confessed to her in the past about her concerns regarding John and his psyche after the crash, but he’d seemed to be moving forward with her gentle encouragement. She wasn’t surprised that the defense attorney had set him back. “Yeah,” she agreed, cringing. “He’s kinda gross. I read some articles about him. He’s represented, like, all the notorious criminals in this district.”

“Figures.”

Concerned about her friends, Allison asked Andy to pick up Brian and drop in on John after work and take him somewhere. Naturally, they dragged him to the Bull, got him rip-roaring drunk again, and he ended up having to crash on their couch. 

At the end of September, Claire thought to cheer him up for his twenty-third birthday, so they all got together at Peggy Sue’s, and then she took him to view a showing of “Nightmare on Elm Street”, a movie that apparently meant something to them somehow. ‘About a guy with knives for hands.’ That didn’t surprise Allison either. She gave him his present later—a new leather jacket to go with his Harley—and his “present”, too. Allison could read between the lines. But none of that seemed to kick him out of his funk. 

‘Not even getting laid. He must be really depressed.’ 

Claire had hoped that the brief respite from the trial—after Judge Stevens granted Peter McCallister a continuance while he sought out Louis Bender, John’s uncle; the dude was proving frustratingly difficult to find—would lessen the load, so to speak, but he continued to monotonously go to work in the mornings, come home, plunk himself in front of the Panasonic for a few hours, take a shower, and go to sleep. Always in that order. 

The Princess was growing increasingly worried. Her calls to Allison and Jackie grew more and more frequent. 

And then, in the second week of October, Claire’s answering machine was beeping with a new message just as she and Allison returned from shopping on Michigan. 

After she pressed the button, Peter McCallister’s slightly tinny voice echoed over the line. “Claire? We found him. Louis Bender is on his way to Chicago right now.”  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Remember in Clueless when Paul Rudd told Alicia Silverstone that she got mad when people assumed she lived below Sunset? Still a thing.
> 
> Note 2: If you haven't seen Mommie Dearest, based off the 1980 book by Christina Crawford, Joan's daughter, I suggest you remedy that because it is a TRIP. My best friend and I used to watch it all the time as kids, and even now we're constantly ending texts with "And remember. NO WIRE HANGERS! NO WIRE HANGERS EVERRR!"
> 
> Note 3: I like to, with a two dimensional character like Nora has been, start off leaving everyone with an idea of who that character is, then switch it up a little in the 11th hour. I don't think Nora's *evil*, I just think she is self-absorbed and a narcissist. And even they have their moments.
> 
> Note 4: A continuance allows attorneys on either side to, like, hit the pause button on the trial for a multitude of reasons, including searching for hard to find witnesses.


	51. Chapter 50: You Can't Handle the Truth! Part Louie, Louie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Louis Bender, everyone.

Chapter 50: You Can't Handle the Truth! Part Louie Louie

John was not prepared for this.

He should’ve been. He was the one who’d suggested his uncle, after all. But…in some corner of his mind, he didn’t actually think that McCallister would find him. His Uncle Lou had fled the Bender coop—said coop being the townhouse that his grandpop had continued to reside in until his death—when he turned eighteen. Got the hell out of Dodge. Kirk and Nancy had received regular postcards and phone calls from their *other* son for about a year. After that, they became less and less consistent; by Lou and Jake’s early twenties, they were barely communicating with the former at all. 

Since Kirk was awesome, and from what little he could recall about his grandma, mostly via Kirk’s stories, he highly doubted the estrangement was due to either of Lou’s parents. That left his brother. It only made sense that he’d want to get as far away from the asshole as possible. John had. 

In John’s childhood, his uncle had occasionally dropped by on the odd birthday and Christmas celebration (which in the Bender household was usually just a halfheartedly decorated tree, cheesy, old Christmas movies on their shitty “fell off a delivery truck” television, and cartons of cigarettes), but he hadn’t glimpsed hide nor hair of the man since he was fourteen for Grandpop Kirk’s funeral. And before that, his visits were sporadic at best. 

The last John had heard of him, he was in an Amazonian rain forest or something. But that was eight years ago.

Now, according to Claire and the message she’d played for him, he was back. McCallister had found him, though it took a little while. “He was just up in Indiana,” she confirmed. “Some small town a few miles outside of Fort Wayne. He has a wife and kids. I guess he settled down after he got married?” 

Shaking his head, a bit incredulous, John lowered himself onto the nearest piece of furniture—in this case, the weird settee. He didn’t even feel it when the hollow bars scraped his back. “This is kind of…unreal…” 

Claire sat down beside him. “Will…will you be okay?”

John shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “I guess. I mean, I barely know the guy. Weird thing to say about my uncle but…”

His wife squeezed his hand at his side.

The Wheel O’ Dani landed on Sloane and Ferris today. They came to the apartment an hour before he and Claire had to leave. When John opened the door, he took note of Ferris’ cheesy grin…and the Wayne Newton denim jacket he was carrying. Exactly Dani’s size. 

“What’s with you and Wayne Newton?” he asked as the two walked inside. 

Ferris gasped as though offended. “The man is brilliant. He taught us all how to say ‘Thank you very much’ in a different language. Quiet thy blasphemous tongue!” 

Claire appeared in the living room loosely holding the baby to her hip. “Merci beaucoup, mes amis.” 

Bueller stared at her blankly. “What?” 

Sloane rolled her dark eyes. “She said ‘Thank you, my friends.’ Someone forgot all of his high school French.” 

Ferris shrugged and gently took Dani from Claire’s grasp. “Why, hello there, my little chickadee! I hope you’re ready to have gonzo fun. I’ve got the whole day planned.”

John was wary about whatever “whole day plans” Bueller could concoct. Was that a lightsaber sticking out of his backpack? 

At the courthouse, John found himself having difficulty paying full attention to the events thus far. His addled mind kept scattering, and his gaze would routinely flick toward the door. He knew *who* he was looking for but not exactly *what*. All John knew about his uncle was that he was Jake’s identical twin—which he guessed meant the dude would look like his old man. And him, by extension. 

‘Weird to have two doppelgangers of yourself walking around.’ 

Like living in that episode of the “Twilight Zone” where everyone got an operation to look the same way.

The prosecution interviewed Dr. Schwartz, Claire’s physician at the hospital, and a key witness to the crash—then the defense went bananas on them both, outright claiming the doctor was lying or exaggerating her wounds (a record of Claire’s patient care fixed that right up) and endeavoring to make the witness question herself because she was blind in one eye. 

Then, the defense called one of his old man’s former coworkers to the stand to give character testimony on Jake’s behalf. John recognized him as one of his father’s old drinking buddies. ‘Figures.’ McCallister tore him up with video surveillance footage of Jake acting like an entitled shit to a customer. 

The court took a recess at about noon, and they all went to the cafeteria to get some food. John barely touched his. Sporto, as always, bought out half of Roy Rogers. 

“Wha?” he mumbled around a vicious bite of chicken as he and Claire gawked at his overflowing tray. “I like their biscuits!” 

Back in the courtroom after their hour-long recess, Judge Stevens called everyone to order. “Order, order! Councilor McCallister, are you ready to call your next witness?”

McCallister nodded once. “Yes, Your Honor; he arrived from his hotel during the recess.”

The judge folded his hands together. “Very well. Please call him.”

Striding to the middle of the courtroom, clad as he was in a *very* expensive-looking Armani suit (John could now count “being able to identify menswear by cut and hem” to his list of skills thanks to his Princess—a proficiency that would assist him in his job, he was sure), McCallister clearly enunciated, “The prosecution calls Louis Bender to the stand.”

John’s heartbeat picked up once a beige-clad cop stuck his head out the double doors, mumbled something unintelligible, and, a moment later, in the courtroom strode…himself. 

Well, an older version of himself, anyway. With shorter, but still a full head of, dark hair. Beige skin a shade or two darker than his own, like he’d been in the tropics recently. His face was clean-shaven except for a mustache under his nose—‘Note to self: *never* grow a mustache.’—and he walked taller than his old man, who was perpetually stooped with age and often stumbled, his blood infused with alcohol. His color looked better, his eyes were brighter…

John’s uncle was a healthier version of his father. Much, much healthier. 

“Dude,” Josh murmured to his side. “That your uncle? ‘Cause he looks like you with a mustache.” A blink. “Please do not grow a mustache unless you wanna look like the guy on the paper towel packaging.” 

John snorted. Now he had the Brawny jingle stuck in his head. 

Uncle Lou approached the front of the courtroom, was sworn in by a bailiff, and climbed into the bench. McCallister templed his fingers. “Sir, can you state your name and relationship to my client, for the record?”

Lou cleared this throat. “I’m, uh, Lou. Louis Robert Bender. Um, I’m not related to…” Widely, he waved his hand toward Claire on the prosecution’s side. “…Ms. Standish or anything. But, uh, I am John over there’s uncle. Her husband, apparently.” 

John didn’t know whether to be impressed that his uncle knew he preferred (*vastly* preferred) to be called John or guilty over not inviting the guy to the wedding. But it wasn’t like he was aware of where he was! For all he knew, his uncle could’ve been in Bulgaria. 

McCallister nodded. “Which would make you the defendant’s brother?”

“Twin brother,” Lou amended, sounding unmistakably unenthused by that designation.

“I see,” the prosecutor said, as though he hadn’t known this previously. “So, can you, Mr. Bender, provide some insight into what it was like growing up with—“ He gestured to the defensive side. “—the, uh, other Mr. Bender?”

From John’s vantage, he could plainly determine the tenseness in Drake’s neck, muscles straining against his skin, and the slight downturn of his mouth. Like he wanted very much to object but knew he hadn’t a leg to stand on. Character witnesses were perfectly legitimate; he’d seen enough reruns of “Perry Mason” to know that. 

Uncle Lou sucked in his cheeks. “Wasn’t fun, I’ll tell you that much.”

McCallister crossed his arms. “Please elaborate.”

His old man’s brother inhaled deeply, seeming to prepare himself for the diatribe he was about to go on. “From the very beginning, Jake was a jackass.” 

Laughter from the galley. John smirked. 

“Please watch your language in the future, Mr. Bender,” the judge said, gesturing pointedly to one of the cameras built into the wall. “We’re being televised.”

“Sorry,” Lou murmured, then cleared his throat. “Um, yeah. He wasn’t the easiest to live with. My very first memory is of him trying to smother my pet hamster. We were six.”

There were gasps among the crowd. Except from John himself. John was not surprised in the least.

On the defendant’s side, a corner of his father’s mouth lifted. Bastard was reliving almost killing his brother’s pet. Almost. 

Right?

John thought of Pete safe and witless at home in his habitat and cringed.

“Fortunately, I woke up just before he could,” Lou went on, as though reading his mind. “Told my parents, but they didn’t believe me. Jake convinced them that he was just ‘petting it too hard’.”

Didn’t legitimate psychopaths start their unholy crusades by hurting and killing small animals? There was nothing “temporary” about Jake Bender’s insanity, that was for damn sure. 

In front of him, Claire made a sound of distress. She hated anyone hurting an animal. People? Eh. Depended on the person. Animals? Hell no. 

“It all got worse as he got older,” Lou went on, notably wincing. “We were twins. Born only seven minutes apart. I was an all right kid. Got good grades. Ran track. Dated whom my parents considered ‘nice girls’. You know, cheerleader types. Girls who never got into trouble, who had impeccable reputations. In my junior year, I won a scholarship to UDub.”

Taking a deep breath, he paused and asked for a glass of water. When it came, he took a sip and continued with a barking laugh. It didn’t sound very full of humor to John. “My folks, um, they were always proud of me, you know? I was an Honor Roll student, so they had that bumper sticker on their car. They displayed my track and field trophies and ribbons pretty prominently. They bought a whole case for them, put it in the living room. And they were elated when I got that scholarship. Jake always felt like he had to compete with me—“

“Objection!” the asshole attorney sputtered, emphasizing the injection by pounding once on the table. “Your Honor, speculation!” 

John rolled his eyes. Judge Stevens pursed his lips but nodded. “Fine, fine. Sustained and stricken from the record.”

The guy sank back into his chair, grinning like the Cheshire cat. John envisioned himself shoving his fist in the lawyer asshole’s face. Admittedly, he wasn’t much in fights, not physical ones anyway, but he was pretty sure he could take Alan Drake.

“Okay,” John’s uncle drawled, evidently exasperated. “Jake *allegedly* felt like he had to compete with me. That’s what you say, right? ‘Allegedly’? I’ve seen ‘L.A. Law.’” 

John grinned once more. His uncle seemed like an all right dude. 

McCallister chuckled. “One term favored by the legal profession, at least. Please do go on.” 

Lou Bender did so. “He was forever trying to get our parents’ attention—“

“Objection!”

John’s grin turned upside down in a second. He *really* wanted to wring that guy’s neck. He was like one of those animatronic gophers, constantly popping up and down, up and down. Behind him, Sporto muttered, “Jeez, can that dude please shut up?” Claire’s brother reached an open palm over the bench for Sporto to slap. 

“Oh, for Pete sakes!” the prosecutor exclaimed. ‘Yes, for *Pete* sakes.’ Might be fun to bring his pet snake to the next court date. Slip him inside Drake’s briefcase. “What now?”

Drake placed his hands on his waist. “Relevance?” he said again.

The judge very distinctly rolled his eyes, making John smirk again. He kinda liked Judge Stevens. He was all right as lawmen went. And John was NO fan of lawmen. But if he *had* to deal with one, a chilled out judge with an expressive face and a penchant for rolling his eyes at absurdity was his choice. At the bench, Uncle Lou banged his head flat atop the podium. 

Judge Stevens sighed, lay his gavel on the platform before him, closed his eyes, and massaged both temples with his index fingers. “Councilor Drake, *please* stop interrupting Mr. Bender’s testimony. He can’t tell this without speaking of events from his point of view. Sit down.”

“But, Your Honor—“

The judge sat up straighter in his high-backed seat and narrowed his eyes at the squirrely creep. “Sit. Down. Unless you want to be held in contempt.” 

Grumbling, Drake did as he was ordered—but was quite obviously not too happy about it. That suited John just fine. 

'Yeah! You show that shitface who's boss!' 

McCallister inhaled deeply and gestured for Lou Bender to go on. “Please, Mr. Bender, do continue. And I apologize for the…*repeated* interruptions.”

Uncle Lou jeered. “Yeah, if I wanted to be interrupted all the time, I’d just talk to my wife.” 

The galley erupted in soft laughter, John and Andy the loudest of all. Allison knocked the Sport with her humongous, bottomless pit of a bag and Claire turned around to glare at John. 

He knew that look. That was the ‘In no way are you getting any tonight’ look. Oh, well. His own fault. 

“Thank you, thank you,” his uncle intoned. “I’m here all night.” John’s lips stretched in a further smirk, and the man went on. “So, as I was saying, Jake was forever trying to get our folks’ attention. His antics were less ‘rebelling teenager’ and more ‘Ted Bundy in the making.’ We were good-looking kids, you know? He definitely used that to his advantage to…I guess ‘lure’ women. He would always come off as this affable, charming dope. He’d take the girls out for a few weeks and then…well, let’s just say quite a few of our classmates paid a visit to the cops. Filed incident reports. None of ‘em were ever looked into.”

Peter McCallister compressed his lips and narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking of his own daughters. John certainly was. The notion of his old man hurting his kid had him enveloped in a veil of rage comparable only to how he'd felt after Claire's "accident"--like he had the capacity to rip Jake's head clear from his body with his bare hands. 

“Were you a physical witness to these…’lurings’?” the prosecutor asked, his teeth clenched. 

Uncle Lou nodded. “Oh, many of ‘em. There was one girl…he almost beat her head in with a crowbar. Only time I successfully managed to stop him. I wanted to go to the police, but I was a kid. Thought that the whole family would be punished ‘cus Jake was still a minor.” His gaze slid toward the floor. “I’ll regret that for the rest of my days.” 

McCallister passed him a box of Kleenex in case he needed it. “What else were you witness to, Mr. Bender?”

Lou grasped the tissue box gratefully. “He used to smash in the trophy case. Shards everywhere. My folks kept having to replace it. Once, he tried to start a fire in the living room with one of my father’s cigars…”

The galley murmured around him. Unbidden, John envisioned his old man slouched in the den in front of the TV, a fat Cuban cigar hanging out of his mouth. The strong smell of cigar tobacco. The glowing orange embers at the end that were often the only light in the whole house. The burn on his inner forearm began to throb. 

Then, he gazed down at the faded burn marks marring the palms of his hands. He felt itchy being in public without his gloves, but they weren't exactly courtroom appropriate. For the first time in years, the stretched, pink scars began to throb.

“He sometimes lashed out at Mom, both physically and just with words,” Lou said, shaking his head a bit. “Real biting words, too. I remember she and my dad had been trying for years to have another kid, and he threw that back in her face a lot. Called her worthless. ‘The one thing you’re good for and you can’t even do right.’ Smacked her sometimes. Accused her of cheating on Dad, which she never would have in a thousand years; she was crazy for my father.” 

John recalled his ma confessing that his dad beat the hell out of her after accusing her of the same, and with their elderly, arthritis-ridden neighbor. Seated beside Josh, the woman in question looked a bit green around the gills. 

“He was especially cruel to me, though,” Lou Bender added. “He hated me. Had for as long as I can remember. He’d trash my trophies and certificates and stuff. Rip my posters off the walls. Try to ‘steal’ my girlfriends. Started rumors about me, for a while got the whole town believin’ that I worshipped Satan. My girlfriend at the time dumped me, my scholarship was briefly rescinded, and I was stripped of my first place medals. Also had the whole school thinkin’ that I was havin’ an affair with our chemistry teacher, Mrs. Wynn. They believed that ‘til we graduated.”

“Did Jacob Bender ever physically hurt you?” McCallister asked, prompting John to lean further over the gate.

Lou’s head bobbed without a moment’s hesitation. “He was fond of pricking me with this Swiss army knife he carried around. There was a razor in it. He really liked that razor.”

John closed his eyes, instantly calling up a mental flash of his father’s Swiss army knife—one that he had used many a time against him. There were quite a few instruments hidden in that thing. A skeleton key (what it unlocked, he had no idea), a bottle opener, a small magnifying glass, a toothpick, the actual knife, and, yes, a razor. Another of John’s many scars began pulsing, this one located just beneath his chin. An old barber’s razor, that day, it’d been *this close* to slitting his throat open. All because he'd left his jacket on the couch. 

“The final straw came,” Uncle Lou continued with a grimace. His complexion, John noticed, whitened beneath his tan. “Not long before we graduated high school.”

McCallister tilted his head to the side. At the defensive desk, the façade on Jake’s face was carefully stony. John was very familiar with his father's demeanor. He knew when he was drunk, when he was decently happy, and when he was about to beat the hell out of him. The jackass knew what his brother was going to say. “And what exactly occurred then, Mr. Bender?” the prosecutor asked. 

Lou sipped at his water and squared his shoulders, like John’s uncle needed to prepare himself for this. John was both intrigued and wary. “I, uh, had just bought my first ride, you know? In sophomore and junior years, I worked part-time down at the gas station. Changing oil and stuff.” Lou idly picked up a lone Number 2 pencil rolling back and forth across the platform and twirled it between his fingers. “’51 Mustang Coupe. Fire engine red. Pretty sweet, for what I paid for it.” A shrug. “She was used but she was mine. Called ‘er Serena. Had the name airbrushed on the side in hot pink.”

John grinned. He’d always been of the mind that stuff only became important when given a name. His Trans-Am was Tiffany. The new Harley was Harriet. 

“Anyway, I loved that car,” Lou Bender went on, a sort of nostalgic smile on his face that John could empathize with. He still thought fondly of his first bike, that rusted piece of junkyard scrap metal. “One day, a few months after I got it, I woke up to find her missing. I looked everywhere conceivable. Cars don’t just *vanish*.”

The prosecutor prodded him further. Lou inhaled deeply before continuing. “After school, I came home. My buddy drove me to the street corner. When I was almost at the house, there the car was in the driveway--*on fire*.” 

The galley erupted in shock and horror. Claire’s gasp was the most audible in the well-acousticked courtroom. John’s jaw fell open. He’d never figured his old man would go *that* far. Or he hadn’t before. The bastard had almost killed Claire; Jake Bender was now capable of anything. 

But a sixteen year old setting a car on fucking FIRE?!!

“Oh my GOD,” Allison and Jackie breathed in unison.

“He set the car *on fire*?!” Sporto exclaimed. 

“And I thought accidentally setting off a flare gun in my locker was bad enough,” Brainiac mumbled. 

“Yeah, none of this surprises me,” Ty scoffed. His buddy had no love lost for his old man, which was putting it mildly. 

McCallister’s eyes bugged out—whether genuinely or for effect, he didn’t know for sure. Probably both. “*On fire*? And this was in the middle of the day?”

Lou nodded solemnly. “Yep. It was the weirdest thing. No one noticed. Or so I thought. No one was standing around. No one called the fire department. But I did see some faces peering out of windows, between blinds. It’s as if…they were *afraid*. Like my brother was some sort of mob boss instead of a sixteen-year-old kid.”

Drake looked like he *really* wanted to object and was white-knuckling it to keep himself from doing so. ‘Either that or he’s just constipated. He had the tacos earlier, right?’ 

“I called the local firehouse,” John’s uncle resumed. “The fire was put out, but the damage to my poor Serena would’ve cost me a bundle to fix. And I knew Jake was responsible. Found his lighter right next to the front tire. He had a customized one. Square and silver, his old nickname on the front in this swirly font. Booker. ‘Cause he always ‘booked’ out of Dodge. Get it?” 

By his uncle’s grim laugh, he got it, all right. 

Stealing a side-eyed glance at his old man, John observed the carefully cultivated mask over his face, the veil that not many could see through. But he could. Oh, could he. The douche was fucking *giddy*. 

For really the first time, John considered that his dad wasn't just an abusive dick. He was a mentally unsound abusive dick. 'Maybe he'd be better off in a psych ward for the criminally insane after all...'

McCallister bowed his head. “How did you respond?”

Lou’s shoulders bobbed. “Got the hell out of there a day after I graduated. Secured campus housing at UDub. I barely ever went back. I knew my folks wouldn’t believe Jake was capable of such a thing, so I just…cut everyone off. When John over there was born, I tried to attend his birthday parties, but Jake made it pretty clear that I was not wanted there. So I just sent him cards and money.”

John had never once seen a single dollar from that birthday money, just a corny ass card with a picture of Santa or Rudolph on the front. Color him shocked that his old man would pilfer his birthday money. Just SHOCKED.

McCallister asked his uncle when the last time he’d spoken to his brother was. Lou exhaled through pursed lips. “Probably six years ago? I called ‘im up. Asked how my nephew was doing and all that. Jake just muttered something and hung up on me. Before that, at my father’s funeral. We barely said anything to each other then.

“Mostly,” he added in a grimmer tone. “I was worried about John, you know? Growing up in that house, with my brother for a dad. And if I’m here today, my fears were justified.”

The prosecutor nodded soberly and closed his line of questioning. John sat back in his bench. So there *had* been someone out there, someone whose mind was not far away from his, someone who gave a shit. For many years, John had felt very alone. Ty was his only saving grace, and later, Claire. But they weren’t of his blood (gratefully; he could hear the banjo strings now). It was kinda nice knowing that he’d had family out there who was worried about him.

Asshole Attorney stood up from his seat and, like, floated over to the bench. Both John’s and his uncle’s eyes narrowed at once. “Mr. Bender. You say—you allege—that my client, Jacob Bender, was ‘envious’ of you, did you not?”

“Didn’t exactly put it that way but—“

“That’s interesting,” the slimeball interrupted, hands folded behind his back as he strolled in a circle. “Because my client had something that sent *you* into a jealous tizzy, isn’t that right, Mr. Bender?”

Lou Bender’s brow furrowed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Drake went on as if John’s uncle hadn’t spoken. “Isn’t it true that Jacob Bender didn’t allow you in his home after his son was a few years old?”

John’s eyebrows came down low over his eyes. It *was* true that, on those few occasions, he had met with his uncle in more public locales. McDonald’s. The park. The flea market once. He didn’t think the man had ever been inside the shithouse on Kenny’s Cove Road. 

His uncle didn’t deny it. “Yes, it is.”

“Not even for your father’s funeral,” the rat went on, ooze dripping from his eyeballs. “And isn’t that because you secretly coveted his wife?”

Laura Bender gasped, a hand flat over her mouth. All eyes stared in her direction, like she was a fucking magnet. Claire, eyes wide, gazed at her mother-in-law over her shoulder. John could practically feel the laser glares his other friends were delivering to his ma right now. Cutting through the violet dress she wore. Searing her skin.

Lou shook his head. “Oh, ho! It is *not*. Where the hell did you get that idea?”

‘Up his butt and around the corner.’ John slouched lower in his bench.

Drake made a sound of…he didn’t entirely know what. Derision? Disbelief? Those tacos in his gut acting up? “Then, can you explain to me—and to the court—why, on the last occasion of a visit to your brother and his family at his home, my client spotted you and Laura Bender discussing quietly in a corner?”

Lou didn’t give John’s father the satisfaction of a glower. “He surely knows why, and it has nothing to do with wanting his wife for my own.” Sighing, he raked a hand through his hair. John wondered if he had picked up the habit from his uncle, a weird innate thing, because his dad never did that. “I was tryin’ to convince Laura to leave. That John wasn’t safe with Jake. I said I’d get her a place anywhere. Pay her bills. She seemed to be considering it, like a part of her *wanted* to leave, but in the end, she backed out.” 

John met his ma’s slightly watery eyes. Her expression, though half hidden by the hand that still rested against her mouth, was openly vulnerable. 

It was true. Holy crap, it was true!

Drake was still skeptical. “If that’s the truth, why didn’t you stay until she confirmed that she’d leave?”

Lou rolled his eyes. “Jake called the cops on me. Said I was trespassing. And that can be confirmed with records from the Shermer PD, I’m sure.” 

Asshole Attorney scowled and, reluctantly it seemed, rested his witness. 

Through it all, the twelve members of the jury remained painstakingly faceless. 

Louis Bender sailed to a bench in the back of the courtroom beside Cameron Frye for the remainder of the day’s trial.

And there John remained, slowly trying do digest the man's testimony.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I would pay serious money to watch a Ferris and Sloane version of Adventures in Babysitting. It'd be a hell of an "adventure" all right.
> 
> Note 2: Ted Bundy was notorious for using his physical appearance to attract his victims. He was charming and funny...right up until the very moment he took some poor girl's life away.
> 
> Note 3: Today, Jake would be a clear incel. Back in the fifties, though, that kind of he-man woman-hating behavior was way more accepted. Cops would be reticent to believe something like that from a white teenaged boy. Hell, some still would. 
> 
> Note 4: My high school boyfriend had his own Mustang, a '65 convertible, also fire-engine red, which he called Serena. Dude was outside in the parking lot wiping Serena down every day for hours. He bathed that car more than he rode it.


	52. Chapter 51: You Can't Handle the Truth! Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! This part is fifteen pages. My Beta stayed up for hours with three kids to help me out with editing and stuff, so I shout her out. Thank you, friend! Amazon keeps suggesting for me lots of 80s movies (obvs) so I gave in and watched St. Elmo's Fire for the first time in a while. Man, that movie is such an 80s flex. A good chunk of the Brat Pack. Bad hair. Weird sideways ties. And I can never get over how absurd Alec is. "I'll stop cheating when I'm married!" Yeah, ok, dude.

Chapter 51: You Can't Handle the Truth! (Part 5)

John formally “met” his uncle that evening after the day’s court proceedings ended. Outside the courthouse, just as he was exiting with Claire (down those fucking ridiculous steps; they were like the stairs Rocky Balboa worked out on) when he glimpsed Louis Bender loitering at the end, a sort of apprehensive/self-conscious look on his face. Hard to tell with the mustache, but it was there. Draped now in a bitchin’ leather jacket, the man kind of resembled Tom Selleck in ‘Magnum P.I.’ Just, you know, if he himself was playing him. 

Slowing his steps, awkwardly pushing his sunglasses over his hair, John felt his hand grow moist in Claire’s light grasp. She squeezed his fingers supportively, the ring he had given her reminding him that he was a damn adult now with his own burgeoning family. 

Didn’t stop the butterflies from flapping their wings in his stomach. It was odd to be nervous about meeting a family member.

At the end of the staircase, John paused and rubbed the back of his neck. He realized, belatedly, that his uncle was doing the same thing.

‘Well. Now I know where I got that habit from.’ 

Lou lowered his arm. “I, uh, don’t really know how to start this conversation…” 

John laughed awkwardly. Fuck, he didn’t either. “Yeah, well, neither do I. Um, I guess…thanks for, you know, the testimony and all.” 

His uncle nodded. Damn but the man really did look like an older version of himself, right down to the leather jacket. He was relieved to discover the man, like his father, still boasted a full head of hair. He might have to deal with the salt and pepper thing later on, but at least he wouldn’t go fucking bald. 

“Was the least I could do,” Uncle Lou muttered. He looked and sounded about as uncertain as John felt. 

Claire had sidled up next to him, smiling her patented “Meeting a new person” beam. She stuck out a hand for his uncle to take, which he did, and after unnecessarily introducing herself, said, “We really appreciate it. We know you…must’ve been busy with your own life, and all.” 

Lou’s shoulders bobbed beneath his shiny leather jacket. “Eh, I’m just a state away. My wife and bother-in-law are taking care of the kids. And not for nothin’, the chance to help finally put my asshole brother behind bars was not one I was gonna pass up.” With eyes just a few shades darker than John’s, he gazed down at his shoes—Timberlands, just like the pair he wore when he was working. “Didn’t do anything when he was mentally, and probably physically, torturing his girlfriends. Couldn’t save Laura. Couldn’t save *you*,” he added, meeting John’s stare. “I read about what Jake did in the papers. I tried to contact the prosecutor myself, but I didn’t know how to get ahold of ‘im. And then I got subpoenaed. The car ride from Fort Wayne was worth it tenfold.” 

Bender lightly kicked at the cement sidewalk with the toe of his boot. The thing was, Lou *had* helped him. His testimony was essential. Lou’s anecdotes had likely gone a long way toward putting Jake in prison for good. 

Claire was the one who replied. “Still. We appreciate it.”

Lou gestured to the excessive cast clamped around Claire’s leg. Her *real* cast was, by now, a simple ACE bandage, but Nora would not be denied. She was like Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction”. ‘I won’t be *ignored*, Claire!’ “But you’re, ah, healing up? Everything all right now?”

His redhead grimaced, bobbing her head from side to side. She’d just washed her hair with that ludicrously expensive strawberry shampoo that morning and the scent was intoxicating to him. “Mostly. It was hell at first, but I’ve mainly healed.”

“Thank God,” John mumbled again. 

“Fortunately,” Uncle Lou answered, a smirk ticking at the corner of his mouth. One that John himself performed often. And his grandpop before him. “Jake’s always had shit aim. He tried out for the baseball team once and hit the ball through the office window. Almost gave our principal a heart attack.”

John snickered, picturing hitting Dick in the head with a baseball. A baseball stink bomb. Damn, he’d missed his chance for that prank. 

Claire suppressed a smirk while regarding him out the corner of her eye. She knew what he was thinking, no doubt. Probably imagining the same thing. “I’m just glad our daughter wasn’t with me at the time.” 

Lou’s eyes bugged out of his head. “You guys have a *daughter*?” 

Bender reached for the awesome leather wallet Claire had given him for his birthday last year and opened it to display the photo of a newborn Dani swaddled in her yellow blanket, asleep in the Bart Bassinet. Beside it was another picture of Claire balancing the kid on her lap at five months. He held it up for his uncle to see. 

Lou cautiously grasped the wallet, a grin stretching his lips beneath the thick ‘stache. “Holy crap. Well, I’ll be! What a cute kid.” Uncle and nephew met each other’s eyes. “Looks just like ya.” 

Both John and Claire chuckled. John tucked his wallet back inside the front pocket of his jeans. Black jeans. He’d run out of clean pairs of “dress pants”. “So I’ve been told.”

The Princess asked his uncle when he had to go back to Indiana, then invited him back to the apartment, where his ma was planning on joining them later. 

The dude was staying at a shitty Howard Johnson’s on the West Side. Housely would definitely be an improvement. 

Back at the apartment, in the lobby, Olivier bid hello to “Monsieur Bender”…then “Monsieur Bender.” He gave a very obvious—and very entertaining—double-take when he walked inside with his uncle. “I believe I am missing something, no?”

Claire giggled. John was thrilled that she seemed to be returning to her old self, though she still had nightmares. While he absolutely loathed watching her clutch the sheets in mental agony, listening to her whimper and cry out (and not the fun type of crying out, either)—and he would’ve gladly exchanged himself in her place if he could—he knew that there was nothing really to be done other than working through it. John just hoped it wouldn’t take twenty years in Claire’s case. 

“This is John’s uncle, Lou Bender, Olivier,” she clarified. “He’s welcome up any time.”

The concierge clutched his chest. Dude knew how to elicit drama. ‘Maybe he was a mime back in France.’ “Oh, Sacre Bleu! I was confused. I shall put the name on your approved visitors list.”

Upstairs, the three of them were presented with the peculiar sight of Dani, decked out like a miniature Darth Vader, clashing lightsabers on the floor with Bueller, who wore the white karate-like uniform of the Jedi. Bueller was making these Star Wars-happy whoosh-whoosh sounds. Sloane sat on the couch nearby, knitting what appeared to be a crocheted baseball hat. 

Uncle Lou looked askance at John. “This, uh, a normal thing?”

“With Bueller?” he replied, gesturing to the wild and crazy Ferris in question. “This is pretty accustomed, yeah.” 

Bueller glanced at them over his shoulder and dropped his plastic lightsaber. “Whoa! Hey, John. You open a wormhole and out popped your middle-aged clone or something?”

“Or something,” he snorted.

Claire brushed past him and, clearly dubious, picked the Vadered-up Dani underneath her arms. “I don’t even wanna know.” 

Sloane didn’t glance up from her bizarre knitting. “Danielle is Ferris’ father.”

Shaking her head and sighing, she carried the kid down the hall to the nursery, presumably to change her into something that was more Light Side of the Force. 

Bueller kept needling him, so Bender muttered an introduction. Ferris grasped his uncle’s proffered hand. “Great to meet ya.” He paused and stared into Lou’s face more closely. “You know, you kinda remind me of that guy on the Brawny paper towels.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Further on, when his ma showed up, what remained of the Bender family, patched together like a quilt—Mother, Son, Uncle, Daughter, and Wife, as well as Brother-in-law—all went out for din at a nearby steakhouse (John’s pick; Claire would’ve chosen Suzume’s Garden, her favorite Asian-fusion place that offered the most uncomfortable seating in Chicago, he was certain)—supposedly to “celebrate” Lou’s homecoming. But John never required an excuse for beef. 

He, Lou, and Josh all ordered the same thing. The thickest cut of meat the restaurant offered—a 64-inch porterhouse. With a cheesy baked potato and steak fries on the side. A few minutes after the food came, Claire broke up in giggles over her filet mignon, dug her Polaroid out of her stupidly oversized bag, and snapped a picture of all three of them seated side-by-side. When Bender took a peek after the picture developed, he understood what had caused Claire’s gaiety—depicted, all three of them were shoveling potato in their mouths as if participating in a race to the finish line. 

His ma poked fun at the photo. “Y’all should go out for one of those eatin’ competitions.”

John conceded this wasn’t a bad idea. You won money at those things, right? 

Back at the apartment, while he and the wife were getting ready for some shut-eye and he was coming out of Dani’s nursery after putting her down, he overheard voices—one masculine, one feminine—chatting in the living room. Well, maybe “chatting” wasn’t the best word. The conversation sounded a bit too solemn for that.

Feeling like a ninja, John blended into the shadows of the corridor, bracing himself flat against a wall. Quickly, he flicked the hallway light off. 

Another thing he’d picked up from Cherry—the ability to expertly eavesdrop. The CIA was calling his name. ‘I’ll call Bri’s uncle in Langley. He can hook me up.’ 

Jerking the droplets of water remaining from his shower out of his ears, the muffled conversation grew a bit clearer. 

“…believe you ate that whole thing!” His ma.

“Wasn’t that hard. I could go for another,” Lou replied. The silhouette on the loveseat across from Laura on the weird settee shrugged. 

“You’re just like Johnny. Never could say no to meat.” His ma’s shadow shook her head. “He dang near started inhaling steak before all his teeth were in.”

What could he say? He was a carnivore. 

There was a brief lull, and John leaned forward as far as he dared to catch more. His ma coughed a bit awkwardly. “Listen, Lou. I wanna thank you for comin’. And for your testimony on behalf of the prosecution.”

John observed one of the shadows’ shoulders bob. “I was subpoenaed. But even if I wasn’t, I’d still’a come. Even tried looking up Peter McCallister, but I came up blank.”

John’s mother nodded. “Still. Thank you. I know the kids appreciate it.” 

To his ma, he would always be a kid. 

Uncle Lou sighed. “Laura—“

“I know,” she interceded; her face was pointed toward the floor. “I know you tried to help me—help Johnny—in the past. I remember the last time you were invited to his birthday. You tried so hard to get me to leave. And I should’ve. I should’a just taken my boy and ran. Jake always promised me that, if I ever left, he’d find me. He’d hunt me down. And he’d do *worse* to Johnny.” Her throat thickened…with emotion, John figured. In the deep recesses of the hallway, he frowned. “’Sides, I was so far on his hook, y’know? A part of me wanted to leave. A large part.” A beat. “But a larger part of me didn’t. And because of that, I put my baby in danger.”

John crossed his arms in the darkness of the corridor. Until just now, he hadn’t been privy to this information, that if she ever skedaddled, fled the coop as Uncle Lou had, Jake threatened to hunt her down. And *him* down. He hadn’t known that…but should have guessed. His old man was not the type to let things go, whether it be a lost socket wrench or…his wife leaving him high and dry. And on some level, wasn’t she right? His old man *had* hunted her down at Housely. And then took out his anger and revenge on an innocent young woman. *John’s* innocent young woman. 

He could understand that Laura had been caught between a rock and a hard place. Yet, he couldn’t control the ire boiling beneath the surface towards her. Knowing what she did, how her husband treated him. How he’d very nearly killed him once. And she stayed. 

Of course, if she hadn’t, he’d never have met Claire. Unless one believed in Fate and Destiny and Kismet and all that bullshit. John absolutely did not. ‘I make my own Fate, thanks.’ 

One of the blobby silhouettes bobbed its head up and down. Uncle Lou. “I understand, Laura. I know you have guilt. And I won’t tell ya you shouldn’t.” 

John’s ma continued to stare down at her toes. 

“But—“ Uncle Lou went on. John held his breath. “—the past is the past. All we can do is move forward, right? If I didn’t, I’d have gone nuts, going over and over my own culpability. How I couldn’t—didn’t—do enough to help those girls.”

“So you tried with me and Johnny, and I didn’t listen,” his ma said, finally lifting her head. “I’m just so sorry that all happened, Lou. That you were frozen out. That I never left in the first place. Heck, I only had the courage to stay gone because of Johnny. And Claire…who got hurt because of what I did. Leavin’ him and all.”

John stared at the floor. He wondered how much back-breaking contrition his ma had been harboring since the crash. 

“That’s not your fault,” Lou assured, sounding remarkably like Claire in that instance. Except with a lower voice. Much lower. “A person is accountable for his own actions. And Jake is gonna get his. You mark my words. You think that rich dad of hers is gonna sit back and let the bastard get away with running down his daughter? Don’t think so. Shit, if some guy did that to *mine*, I’d hunt him down and kill ‘im.” 

Laura chuckled a bit dryly. “Johnny said somethin’ similar.” A deep breath. “But thanks, Lou. You know you’re always welcome back here. I’m sure Johnny would love to meet his cousins.” 

“I have four teenage daughters. He might not.” 

His mother laughed. John cringed, remembering the fun argument over a sweater at the McCallister house. Between the girls and Kevin and Buzz, he had no idea how McCallister hadn’t gone nuts himself. 

“Thanks, Laura. Might be nice, being part of the family again.”

The corners of John’s lips ticked. The two muffled voices faded as he turned toe and walked back to the bedroom.

**  
This trial was going on forever. Or so it seemed to Claire. 

The witnesses presented were like a deck of cards, one after the other after the other. And the proceedings were sure as hell taking its toll, both mentally and physically. While she sat there at the prosecution table, slumped on her ass for hours at a time, her tail bone began to ache, her leg would throb, and she developed this strange crick in her neck. Then having to sit there and remain quiet while Drake drilled into her friends, while his witnesses spewed lie after lie…it was maddening, and starting to affect her appetite. She couldn’t eat anything substantial until she was away from that courthouse, safely ensconced in her apartment. The mere idea of food after listening to that creep was enough to kill any cravings she may have had.

The next few weeks passed in a blur, it seemed. A stressful, surreal blur—as though she’d been placed on a Tilt-A-Whirl or a carousel she couldn’t step off of. Drake interviewed witnesses—mostly former coworkers of Jake’s who claimed that he was a “great guy” and “jovial” and “pleasant to work with” and the lone couple who’d faithfully remained seated on his side of the courtroom during every court date. They did, indeed, turn out to be the *friends* attached to the Sally Burckhardt case, as Claire had suspected. Their individual testimonies talked Jake up like he was a damn saint. 

Every day in that courtroom made Claire feel more and more lethargic. And then John caught a strain of the same flu that Danielle had had. The one that kept Brian trapped in bed for nearly two weeks. 

It was almost comical. John *never* got sick. The guy could walk down North Columbus bare ass naked in the dead of winter and not even contract a cold. But, it appeared, his ruthless immune system had taken a direct hit from all those sleepless nights caring for an infant. 

He’d also skipped out on his flu shot that year. John hated needles with a passion. He wanted a tattoo, something badass, she supposed, but the idea of sitting still while a needle repeatedly jabbed into his skin made him squeamish. A needle he’d have to *pay* for! 

Claire was unrelenting in teasing him vis-à-vis his irrational fear of needles despite the fact that he carried a wicked sharp switchblade. Once, he even tried to convince her that he was over it and showed off his newly acquired skull tattoo on his bicep. Claire washed it off with alcohol.

So, when Claire tried to wake him up one morning in late October after he slammed the snooze button on the alarm clock, at first, he wouldn’t move and she grew concerned. Then, with a groan, he turned over to face her, and Claire pulled her head back in alarm. 

“Oh! You don’t look so good,” she said, loosely holding Danielle in one arm. Unconsciously, she took a few steps backward. 

John blinked crusty, reddened eyes. “I feel like shit run over twice, so at least my outside matches my inside.”

He really did. Look like “shit run over twice”. Pale and wan, eyes swollen and shot through with red, his lips all bloodless and chapped…and there were distinct beads of sweat on his forehead. Claire wiped his face down with a nearby cloth and pressed her palm against his head—‘I’m getting really good at this. Must be another new mom superpower.’—decided that he definitely felt warm, and, once she placed Danielle inside the Bart Bassinet, went into the bathroom to collect the thermometer.

“Okay,” she breathed as she walked back into the bedroom. “Under the tongue.”

John, again, blinked, staring up at her like a tired hound dog, and coughed. “Do I have to?”

Claire folded a hand on her hip. “If you want, I can do it the way I take Danielle’s temperature.”

Her husband paused for a second, then the lightbulb seemed to come on and he moaned. “Ugh. That’s not my kinda kink, Princess.” Grasping the thermometer, he pressed the ON button and shoved it in his mouth. 

The readout came back as 100.4. John moaned and kvetched like it read 105. 

Alas, her dumbass spouse was still attempting to pull himself out of bed and get dressed. Claire stared at him incredulously. “John. *What* do you think you’re doing?”

Wincing, he reached *very slowly* for a pair of socks. “Getting dressed?”

“Oh, no you’re not! You’re going to lay right back down.” Claire bestowed upon him her best Princess glower. “There is no way you’re going to work with a fever, John.”

A sigh, and his hands dropped uselessly to his sides where he sat on the edge of the bed. “Claire, I’ve gotta go to work…”

“No,” she negated. “What you’ve *got* to do is rest. Look at you! You can barely stand. How the hell do you think you’re going to operate a buzz saw?”

John sucked in his cheeks. “Very carefully?” 

In the Bart Bassinet, Danielle burbled. Even the baby knew how stupid her father was being. 

Claire reached for the phone. “If you go today, you’ll just make it worse. In fact, how long have you been feeling like this? It can’t have just sprung on you overnight.” 

John hesitated. At this point, she was quite familiar with his “Damn, I’m Caught” face. And he was definitely wearing it now. “…three days.”

‘Amazing.’ Claire threw up her arms in exasperation and started in on lambasting him for being a stubborn fool until John begged her to spare the lecture; his head was killing him. Lips pursed, Claire lowered her arms and agreed. She would have continued ripping him a new one, but…poor thing looked so *pathetic*, staring up at the ceiling with droopy puppy dog eyes and limp hair falling over his forehead. Softly chuckling, she apologized, brushed his damp brown hair out of his face, and called his office. 

Once she got off the phone, the Princess placed both hands on her hips and stared down at him while trying not to laugh. She knew it was kinda mean of her, but John was acting like he was dying when he only had a slight fever and a cough. “That was Bill. He said to get better soon because you’re the best he’s got. And also, if you darken the office with a fever, he’s gonna send you right back here, even if he has to drive you himself.” 

In response, her mulish husband grumbled some more. 

Claire collected Danielle from the bassinet, beamed into her little face, and turned her around to face John. “Look, Daddy’s sick! And he was *still* going to go to work today! That’s silly, isn’t it? Daddy’s silly, yes he is!” Claire tickled the baby’s stomach, and she giggled. 

John, now facing away from them toward the wall, barked a wretched, breathy laugh. Claire switched the light off and closed the door behind her. 

Her mule-headed Criminal remained abed for the next few days—for the most part, anyway. Once, she caught him, fully dressed, trying to sneak out of the apartment, presumably to go to work. Luckily, she had been in the kitchen at the time preparing Danielle’s bottle. Wordlessly, she pressed her palm to his forehead and demanded he take off his clothes and get back in bed. 

“You’re usually a lot nicer when you order me to do that,” he’d muttered as he slunk back down the hall, already shrugging off his work shirt. 

Claire rolled her eyes, sputtering reluctantly, and finished feeding Danielle. That done, she poured some blue Gatorade into a glass and left it on the nightstand beside two fever-reducing Tylenol. John sniffed its contents before drinking to make sure it wasn’t drain cleaner. ‘He’s seen “Heathers” too many times.’ 

Granted, so had she. Who could impugn her? It was Christian Slater! 

On the fourth day, in the middle of the afternoon, Claire was in the small dining nook feeding Danielle, who had just tried mac and cheese for the first time. The baby seemed to approve, judging by the absurd amount of Kraft non-cheese “cheese” on her face. She’d even gotten some of the orangey-yellow concoction in her hair. How she managed that, Claire would not begin to wonder. 

Claire glanced at the glowing green numbers blinking on the microwave. Ty and Laura were supposed to be giving their testimonies today, but the court date had been pushed back and rescheduled at Claire’s request. Rescheduling court appearances was, in general, a pain in the ass. Doing so usually required an in-person request to the judge for a continuance, contacting the county clerk, and filling out paperwork. But not for a Standish (or a née Standish); Daddy had simply phoned Judge Stevens’ personal number himself, and everything was henceforth taken care of.

Scooping up some more unnaturally orange noodles with the plastic and rubber Spider Man spoon, Claire beamed and aimed the utensil toward Danielle’s puckered lips. “Here comes the plane coming in for a landing! Open up the hangar!” 

Danielle gawked at her like she was speaking in tongues, but Claire had always wanted to do the airplane-hangar thing. 

Her baby opened her tiny rosebud mouth, accepting the cheesy offering (or half of it, anyway; the rest ended up splayed across her cheeks), and Claire clapped like Danielle had just sung the National Anthem to a packed stadium. The infant copied her clumsily. 

‘Damn, I can’t believe she’s almost one!’ 

The anniversary of Danielle’s eventful birth was in a little over two weeks. Claire had quite the party planned. 

She was in the midst of washing out the plate when a slumped figure draped in a flannel duvet—from top to toe, like it was some kind of bizarre Tibetan monk’s robe—grumped into the living area, sunk itself down atop the couch, and flicked on the Panasonic. Other than his fingers, John’s miserable face was the only part of him that was visible. 

Claire breathed a laugh at how pitiable he looked and rested the plate in the dish dryer. “What are you doing in here?”

John’s steadfast gaze did not leave the television screen. From her vantage, she couldn’t see what he was watching, but she could hear Bugs Bunny’s inimitable voice. John was watching “Looney Tunes”. “Wanted to watch TV,” he muttered. 

Crossing from the kitchen to Danielle’s high chair, she picked her up and gently deposited her inside the playpen. Instantly, she began fiddling with her toy telephone. “There’s a TV in the back of the closet in the bedroom.”

“Wanted to watch the big TV.” His lips barely moved in his response. 

Claire *just* stopped herself from erupting in giggles. She couldn’t help it; her husband looked so adorably wretched. Some color had returned to his cheeks and lips, and the red had disappeared from his eyes, his fever had gone down a bit, but the Man Flu was strong with this one. It was like he was covered in a flannel shroud. From the side, only his nose and a bit of his hair were visible. He sat scrunched up in a ball with his knees to his chest and his feet sheathed in dinosaur socks. Yesterday, she’d informed him that she was headed out to look for a job, but he had whined and moaned until she agreed to postpone the search for now. 

Honestly. It was like having two babies instead of one. 

Claire busied herself fixing him some lemon tea, added a drop of honey, then delivered it to him in an Elmer Fudd mug. He grumbled but took the tea anyway. That done, she unwound the germy flannel from his person, balled it up, and replaced it with the patchwork quilt her grandmother had knitted years ago. The flannel bedspread went directly into the basketball net hamper. 

John remained slumped in the same spot, a thermometer now sticking out of his mouth. He looked like someone had run over his cat. “Can I do anything else?” she asked, standing before him just aside the television. 

Slightly shivering, John glanced at one of the ajar windows above the loveseat. “C—can you close the windows?”

Claire bit her lower lip. “Jackie says to keep them open. You know, air out the germs and stuff.” 

“Claire, *please*?” Another shiver. “I’m so fucking cold.”

“Okay, okay,” she soothed and darted toward the windows, pushing all but one of them, the furthest away from him, shut. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” John jeered, appearing quite humorous in the soft blue and pink quilt clutching a mug of tea…wearing his trademark sneer. The combination was hysterical. Claire wished she had her Polaroid on her. “Rewind time a week, before I came down with this stupid flu bug.” 

The Princess laughed and clasped his shoulder. “Your fault. It got worse because you ignored it for three days.” 

“I caught the Claire Flu. Who would’ve guessed?”

Claire hurled a throw pillow at him.

**  
Bender improved after a week, and the court date was rescheduled for that Saturday, seven days before Dani’s first birthday party. Though he still had a bit of a fever, no way in hell was he going to tell Claire that; she’d handcuff him to the bed, and those ensuing wrist lacerations were only acceptable if the deal included some action (Cherry had surprised him a few times with just that, though she preferred kerchiefs; his wrists were grateful). This train of thought had to be dropped because he was in a fucking courtroom and sitting beside his mother. Talk about awkward. 

He still felt like donkey doo. He hated being sick. Claire was adamant that he not go anywhere near the baby until he was 100% again, and he could find no fault in that logic. The memory of sitting up all night with Dani when she’d caught her own strain of the bug—which he was now calling the Claire Flu, much to his wife’s annoyance—was not a particularly pleasant one. He’d been so fucking worried, he made sure to take and retake her temperature every hour on the dot that night and kept her bundled up in two different blankets. Then, he’d fallen dead asleep across the desk, apparently. Didn’t even recollect doing it. 

Parenthood was a trip, man. Sometimes, he dropped by Sporto and Basketcase’s place stinking of baby formula with splotches of talcum powder on his face. The Sport would laugh and laugh. John couldn’t *wait* until he and Crazy had one of their own. 

John’s uncle, who was determined to remain in Chicago until the trial ended, had accompanied them this morning after sleeping in the living room the night before. That Howard Johnson’s on the West Side was, according to him, right next to a hookah lounge. Uncle Lou had shown up yesterday evening reeking of the stuff. 

Today, he claimed the same bench in the back beside Bueller and Sporto’s brother, Greg. Both were entertaining themselves poking at his resemblance to John. 

Judge Stevens called the court to order. Three bangs of the gavel were required to drown out Sylvia Takahari’s twangy voice whilst she chatted with her daughter. 

It was the prosecution’s witness. McCallister stood at the front of the room, hands clasped before him. “The prosecution calls Tyson Carter to the stand.”

John watched as Ty climbed out from the second row beside his girlfriend, clad in an ill-fitting gray suit he knew belonged to his father, and strode up to the bench, a determined expression on his face. 

Ty had been wanting to smack back at his old man for a while. 

The bailiff had Ty lay his hand atop a Bible. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you, God?”

“You bet I will,” Ty sneered. His friend and coworker slid into the bench. Glaring daggers at the defensive table.

John’s gaze ticked to where his father and the Asshole Attorney sat. That same aggravating little smirk, the one Bender had grown to fear over the years, danced around his mouth. Today, Jake’s lower lip was split and swollen. ‘Jackass must’ve gotten into another fight.’ 

The prosecutor, as always, first asked him how he was related to his client. Ty pulled at a loose string in the right sleeve of the sport coat. “Um, well, I’ve known Claire since, I think, the summer before senior year? Of high school, that is.”

Ty, being John’s oldest friend, had been aware of John’s relationship with the Princess since July of that year, when Ty got him the job working for his father. John had never really expressed much in the way of purpose before; as a kid, he was perfectly content working the odd job mowing lawns or delivering newspapers or, once, handing out coupons for Burger Heaven dressed as a giant cheeseburger with all the fixings (thank burger heavens no one managed to snap a picture of *that*) whenever he needed more dope or a new Walkman. The first time Bender asked his buddy if he could help him get a position at Carter & Craig, Ty’s eyebrows rose and, laughing, demanded to know why. He’d had suspicions that John was seeing someone--*really* seeing, not just hooking up with—but Bender remained tightlipped…until just that moment. When he confirmed that, yes, he was involved with someone. And no, it wasn’t anyone he knew. Or would believe if John told him.

His friend had guessed their old history teacher, Ms. Chase. Whom every guy at Shermer had a thing for…mostly because she was built like Brooke Shields. John mumbled “No”, then, reluctantly, opened his wallet and showed him a string of black and white pictures taken in a photobooth at a July 4th carnival thing he’d scrounged up enough dough to take Claire to. 

Ty had known exactly who she was, obviously, and almost pissed his pants. “Claire Standish?! Dude! Are you crazy?! Don’t you know who her dad is? He practically runs this town!”

“Shh!” John snatched the pictures back and stuffed them in his wallet, surreptitiously glancing around himself. They were in the arcade at the erroneously named Shermer Hills Mall; their classmates were everywhere, and he didn’t want them to be privy to this information. Yet. “Jesus! Be a little *louder* next time. I don’t think they heard you in Canada. And yes, I know who her old man is, thanks. I’m not an idiot.”

Ty guffawed. “I don’t know, man. You just might be. *Claire Standish*, damn! How the hell did *that* happen?!”

Bender shrugged a mite self-consciously. “Met her in detention.”

“Which one?” Another laugh. 

“Eh, Saturday back in March.” John stuffed his cheap plastic wallet inside his back jeans pocket. “She’s…a lot cooler than you’d think.” 

“She better be,” his friend replied, a tad ominous. “’Cause right now? All I’m thinkin’ is that she’s rebelling against Mommy and Daddy. And don’t tell me that’s never crossed your mind, girl like that.”

John sighed. Obviously, he’d considered that. Quite a bit. Shit, he’d even kind of suggested it, hadn’t he? “Remember how you said your parents use you to get back at each other? Wouldn’t I be *outstanding* in that capacity?” But…it’d been four months. Nearly four months. He had even snuck into her room a few times when he couldn’t go home. To sleep and…fool around a bit. He *liked* her. Truly liked her. Not just because she was pretty and had a hot body and her hair smelled like fruit. He liked who she *was*. Who she was when she was with him. Around him, she let her hair down and wiped all that slap off her face. The tension in her neck and shoulders vanished. She wasn’t Claire Standish anymore. Just…Claire. Claire who made him laugh and pissed him off and who was really pretty damn smart and liked horror movies and who was a hot dancer when she wasn’t surrounded by other people (even if her musical tastes left something to be desired). She’d admitted to him that she had felt a bit self-conscious in detention that day, a fact that blew his frigging mind. Claire Standish, self-conscious. 

And she seemed to like him, too. *Him*! By some fucking miracle! Some working class joe who couldn’t afford to take her to fancy-schmancy restaurants or exotic locales or buy her a myriad of shiny trinkets. “John, I don’t care about any of that,” she’d assured him when he insecurely brought just that topic up one night a week earlier. He’d taken her to the old Shermer water tower on the edge of town after the carnival to watch the fireworks. And eat ice cream. ‘Everyone loves ice cream.’ He looked at her skeptically, and she exhaled and went on. “I’ve *been* to those places. They’re all the same. I just…like being here. With you.” 

John had felt himself flushing with pleasure at her comments and was inordinately grateful that it was nighttime and she couldn’t see him. 

“Believe me, I considered that,” he said now, pushing his hair back from his face. The gloves were back on. Kind of stupid in the unbearable July-in-Chicago heat, but he didn’t feel comfortable without them. 

Ty crossed his arms over his Pac-Man t-shirt. “And?” 

Again, Bender shrugged. “…it’s hard to explain, man. But…I don’t think that’s what’s goin’ on. I really don’t.” 

Inserting a token into the Donkey Kong game, Ty replied, “For your sake, I hope you’re right. Shit,” he added, shaking his head incredulously. “Claire freaking Standish. Didn’t she win Prom Queen or something last year?”

“…Spring Fling Queen.” The Spring Fling was an annual dance the upperclassmen put on for the lowers. He’d never gone, it went without saying. 

Ty erupted in a belly full of laughter. “Now I’m picturing you standin’ beside her wearing a crown. Holding a scepter. And an armful of flowers.” *Flutter-flutter* went his eyelashes. 

John pushed on his arm. “Oh, fuck you.”

The laughter continued. 

Ty formally met her for the first time later that week at Peggy Sue’s. And then, a few months later, he was involved with his *own* Princess in Pink. 

“In relation to her?” Ty added now. “We went to high school together, and she’s a friend of mine. Been with my best friend for over six years now. I think.”

John’s friend was not very good with keeping track of important dates. It was why he and Megan were forever on-again-off-again-on-again. Last time, she’d gotten so pissed that he forgot their anniversary, she dropped him on his ass. They reconciled two months later. 

At the prosecution’s table, Claire smiled and flashed him a thumbs-up. 

McCallister had his hands clasped behind his back. “And that would be her husband, Johnathon Bender?”

Ty snickered at the usage of his full moniker. John just scowled. “Yeah, that’s right. My bud, *Johnathon*.” 

To John’s left, Josh was laughing under his breath. 

“And could you tell us, court and jury, how you came to be acquainted with Mr. Bender? And, by extension, Claire Standish.” 

Ty inched the squat microphone closer to his chest and ducked down a bit to speak into it. “In *Johnathon’s* case, I used to see ‘im all the time out in his yard, throwing a tennis ball against his shed. He lived in the house in front of mine, you see. Our yards were separated by a chainlink fence my folks put up when they first moved in. I’d go out there to collect my mom’s tomatoes. She grew the most awesome tomatoes.” 

Ain’t that the truth. Mrs. Carter’s tomatoes had almost gotten him to consider vegetables as viable foodstuff. Almost. 

John craned his neck around, searching out Mr. and Mrs. Carter in the very back row. They were both here today to support him and Claire…and to watch their son’s testimony. Mrs. Carter was donning a large floral Bretton hat that the Noracaine was eyeing jealously. 

“Anyway,” he continued with a light cough. “John, eh, always looked kinda pissed off, so I never talked to him. Until I found him one day sitting on the patio—it was really this big square of cement—hugging his knees. He looked like he was crying.” Ty met John’s eyes, a slight upturn of his lips. “Sorry, man.” 

John grumbled something unintelligible even to him. Josh was cackling softly. His ma briefly lay her head on his shoulder. 

McCallister urged him to go on. Ty took a deep breath. “I asked him what was wrong, but he just kept shaking his head. He had half his face hidden behind his hair. Still had the same haircut back then.”

Laura fingered the ends of his hair and shook her head. 

“Then, there was a breeze, and I saw it,” Ty continued, visibly cringing. “Them. There were all these…*bruises* on his face, and his eye was swollen to all hell. He had a cut on his forehead. I kept prodding him and eventually, he admitted that his old man beats him up. And his ma.” 

John’s mother’s hand was slightly quivering in her lap now. Automatically, he grasped hers with his own, his fingers stilling the vibration. Damn, even her digits were skinny. She’d put on some LBs in the interim, but his ma was still palpably underweight. 

“Bender begged me not to tell anyone, but I didn’t feel right about that,” his buddy admitted, showing his teeth in a grimace. John could recollect a much younger version of himself standing in that same patchy yard chatting somberly with the neighbor boy beyond the fence. Ty in his burgundy Shermer Elementary t-shirt. Ripe, juicy tomatoes hanging off stalks as high as his waist. The yellow house in the distance. It all was like GD yesterday. “So I went home and told my parents. They called CPS a few times, I know, but Jake always convinced them his kid was full of shit and he just fell down the stairs or something.” 

On the right, his old man sat at the defensive table, his face a carefully stony mask. Drake leaned over and whispered something to him in his ear, but the asshole barely moved. 

In the back of the courtroom, Mr. and Mrs. Carter exchanged heartbroken glances. John was intimately familiar with *that* particular look. The one most adults flashed him as a kid when they suspected something was up. The “Oh, that poor child!” look. 

John sank a bit further down in his bench. 

“What happened after that?” the prosecutor asked, urging his witness to continue. 

Ty swallowed. Bender’s gaze followed the motion of his esophagus. “There wasn’t much else *to* do, you know? Except we both needed a friend. We were outcasts; the kids on the street were always getting into some legal trouble, and we didn’t need that. So, we were each other’s friend. Still are, obviously. But, um, it wasn’t easy for us. Bender’s father was ignorant as hell—“ 

At this, the Asshole Attorney predictably shot out of his seat. “Objection! Speculation!” 

Rolling his eyes, Judge Stevens sustained but did not look happy about it. 

“Fine,” Ty groaned. “*Allegedly* ignorant. He was pretty free with the slurs—with me, with his wife. Got to the point where I was reluctant to even pick him up on the way to school. Thus, Bender spent most of his time at my house. Crashed on the couch sometimes. My folks let him stay over whenever Jake kicked him out.”

There were murmurs from the peanut gallery. John flattened his lips, his mind instantly going Back There. How many nights had he slunk across the yard to Ty’s house, bleeding and exhausted? How many times had Mrs. Carter cleaned him up and given him some clothes of Ty’s to wear? More than he could conceivably count, that was for damn sure. 

Beside him, now it was his ma’s turn to offer comfort. 

McCallister asked Ty if he could recall a specific instance of Jake Bender’s cruelty. Nodding sagely, he replied, “There were so many. One time, the old man stomped into our house uninvited to literally drag John home. Another time, when we were ten, he punched him in the face for spillin’ his juice. Threw him down the stairs quite a few times.” John winced, the scar on his knee throbbing like he’d just gotten the laceration yesterday. “Pushed him off the porch. He almost cracked his damn head open.”

Bender remembered that—oh, boy, did he. He’d only managed to avoid slamming his head into the concrete pathway by craning his neck at the last second and hitting the grass instead. 

At the bench, Ty’s eyes narrowed to slits. He was glaring in the general direction of the defensive table. Fingers fisted, he growled into the mic, “You, Jake Bender, are a freaking monster, and I’ve been wanting to pay you back for what you’ve done to my friend for years. How you spoke to me. You screwed up real bad, asshole. You went after Rich Standish’s daughter. You’re gonna be behind bars for a LONG time.”

For the first time, Drake actually looked scared and defeated. ‘The bastard *can* show emotion, who knew?’ Tiredly, he declined a cross-examination, and Ty angrily stormed back to his seat. John gave him a nod of thanks as his mother was called to testify. 

Laura Bender rose from the bench beside him and approached the front of the courtroom. She was sworn in, then took a seat on the podium. 

And Jake smiled. He actually fucking *smiled*. He was so sure that his wife wouldn’t ultimately send him down the river. 

He was wrong. Very wrong.   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: John definitely strikes me as a steak and potatoes kinda guy.
> 
> Note 2: Ah, in the time before the internetz. Nowadays, it would've taken Lou 30 seconds to find Peter McCallister. 
> 
> Note 3: John being terrified of needles amuses me.
> 
> Note 4: Nor is he immune to Man Flu, which also amuses me.
> 
> Note 5: Fact: in the 90s there was no cheese in Kraft cheese. I remember reading the ingredients all confused why there was no cheese in this cheese. Idk if the recipe's changed since then, but I was kind of scared to know what that stuff actually was.
> 
> Note 6: According to that book I read, during a callback for the part of Bender, while he was waiting, Judd was hurling a tennis ball against a wall and listening to his Walkman REALLY loud. Ally Sheedy approached him and told him not to be such a spaz because he was obviously freaking out about the role. An opportunity to incorporate that little nugget.


	53. Chapter 52: You Can't Handle The Truth! Part 6 (Feat. Chuck E. Cheese)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this fic has officially gotten away from me. And has, for a while. It's not mine anymore; it's theirs xD I am just the conduit in which they speak and express themselves. When a day goes by in which I don't write, they get mad at me. "You lazy asshole, what are you doing?!" "...working?" "Pssh. What is that bullshit? You work for US today!"
> 
> Content Warning: the first part of this chapter alludes to and describes abuse, physical and mental, as well as drug abuse. If this is at all triggering to you please skip until you see the "**"

Chapter 52: You Can't Handle The Truth! Part 6 (Feat. Chuck E. Cheese)

Laura Bender’s façade was completely unreadable as she approached the bench. Flat and smooth like a shale stone, it was the perfect poker face. Claire figured the woman must’ve developed those skills living with her cow pie of a husband all those years. She knew, implicitly, when to express her true feelings and when to hide everything behind a mask of vacuity. 

After the bailiff swore her in, Laura climbed up onto the podium. Claire did not take her eyes off her once. Her ability to remain calm and collected under the stares of dozens was admirable. 

Laura’s and Ty’s testimonies had been the ones she was most curious of, both of them having been a part of John’s life way before Claire herself walked into the picture in her Ralph Lauren riding boots. Since John’s oldest friend had already bared his soul, his mother was next.

Claire knew that the prosecution was counting on their dual testimonies to paint a portrait of Jacob Bender in years past. To prove that his cruelty was not a sudden and uncharacteristic event, but simply a part of his psyche and had been for decades. 

A bid to dismantle any doubt that what he’d done on May 17th was a freak act and not entirely within his capability. 

Claire inclined in her hard-backed seat, glad she had brought a pillow to sit on today. Somehow, Ty’s statements earlier had caused her spine to start aching. She had a feeling it would only get worse with her mother-in-law’s. 

Mr. McCallister approached the bench. “Ms. Bender, thank you for being here. I know this must be difficult.”

Laura merely nodded. The slight pursing of her lips was the only outward evidence of her discomfiture. 

“Can you, for the record, clarify your relationship to my client?”

Laura cleared her throat and leaned into the microphone. “Claire is my daughter-in-law. My son is sitting right over there.” She pointed a finger at John in the front row, who subsequently glared at everyone staring at him. 

‘This may as well be *his* trial, too,’ Claire ruminated, peeking over her shoulder to watch his eyes bounce repeatedly from side to side. Constant attention made him nervous unless it was gleaned from one of his pranks. Like when he’d planted a Barry Manilow standee in Vernon’s office closet. The air bubble near its mouth crowed “I am Barry Manilow and I approve of this wardrobe.”

Claire spluttered in reminiscence. 

McCallister nodded. “Johnathon Bender, correct?” Off Laura’s sage nod, he went on. “Can you describe for me, and for the jury, your current and previous relationship with your son—“’ 

“Objection!” the asshole Drake sputtered, eyes narrowed behind his wire-rim glasses. “Your Honor, what does this have to do with my client?”

“—as it *pertains to Jacob Bender*?” the prosecutor continued his interrupted thought, glaring askance at his adversary. 

Judge Stevens shrugged. “Looks like you got your answer, Councilor Drake. Overruled.” 

Drake crossed his arms and pouted like a petulant child. Behind her, John chuckled in her ear. 

Exhaling deeply through her compressed lips, Claire’s mother-in-law wrapped both skinny hands around the microphone stand. “I won’t beat around the bush or sugarcoat it, Mr. McCallister. I wasn’t sober for a good portion of his life. I, um, was on and off paracetamol for many years. Just managed to get sober a little over a year ago, after an extensive stay in a rehab facility. It, um, wrecked our relationship. I…had periods of sobriety, but generally, it was a fog. Sometimes, I didn’t even understand what I was doin’. That…whatever it was, was hurtin’ my boy.” 

John gazed down at his lap, presumably getting lost Back There. Claire ached to go to him, knew she couldn’t, so reached behind her and caressed his knee. Gratefully, her father beside him patted his shoulder, offering comfort in the only way he could. Privately, Claire admitted to herself that this line of questioning with his mother was likely going to affect him more than anyone else’s. Even Ty’s. 

Mr. McCallister clasped his hands in front of him. “And can you explain exactly *how* it hurt him? In relation to your husband?” The prosecutor added this last request emphatically so as to prevent Douchey Drake from jumping to object. Again. 

A muscle in Laura’s left cheek worked. “My…husband—well, soon to be former husband—“

A quiet scoff from the defensive table. Claire had the urge to throw up her middle finger. ‘Can you hear this? Want me to turn it *up*?’ 

Laura glared in Jake Bender’s general direction but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the brief interruption. “—was very cruel to our son,” she continued, pausing to push an escaped hair tendril behind her ear. She did that when she was nervous, Claire noted. “As Ty alleged, he was abusive. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. To both of us, but especially Johnny. Jake…well, he claimed to love me. Lookin’ back now, it seems more obsession. Or lust or somethin’. But he did claim it, and told me so often. With Johnny, he only ever looked at him with disgust. ‘Cept on the rare occasions when he was…genial? I guess that’s the word. And I…” Laura hesitated again to wipe her nose with a Kleenex. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. “…sorry, um…”

Mr. McCallister stepped closer and offered her the tissue box. “That’s all right, Ms. Bender, please just go at your own pace.” 

Claire’s mother-in-law bobbed her head and swallowed audibly. Those formerly unshed tears were now trickling down her cheeks in thin rivulets. “I backed him up,” Laura sniffed, beginning to cry. John twittered in his seat, and Claire’s hand on his knee tightened. “He’d be saying all these…these horrible things to Johnny. ‘You’re no good.’ ‘You’ll never get anywhere.’ ‘I’m embarrassed to have a lazy good-for-nothin’ loser for a son.’ ‘You’re a dang slob, and you ain’t nothin’ but a burden. Your mother should-a just used a coat hanger on your ass.’ Stuff like that. Eighteen years of that, of being told by his parent, someone who was supposed to love him unconditionally, that he’s a worthless waste of space…it got to him, as it would anyone, I think. And…when I was off the wagon, I just *stood* there. Sometimes, I *laughed*. And when Jake got physical with ‘im…so would I, occasionally. I’d…I’d smack him, I’d beat his chest, I’d pull his hair. It was only one time…one time…when I lashed out after fallin’ off the wagon… I kicked him and he slammed into a wall. I made my boy *bleed*. I was always so far gone when I wasn’t sober, but even through that haze, I was horrified. I never touched ‘im again, but…my words still hit their mark.” 

Gasping quietly, the Princess found her husband’s hand and held on for dear life. She hadn’t known about any of this. Looking at Laura now, she couldn’t imagine the woman ever would’ve had the strength to *do* such a thing, and she was purportedly way worse off back then, in a bodily sense. In her rage, her stubbornness, she’d not just mentally hurt her son but physically, as well. 

Her friends were glaring at Laura now, without the initial wariness they regarded her walk to the bench. Everyone, even Ferris, the most amiable person Claire knew. Hell’s bells, even her *mother* appeared pissed. 

Laura dabbed at her eyes with another tissue, smearing her mascara. She looked like a blonde raccoon. “And that was only the mental stuff Jake did. Lord knows he was physically abusive, too. Sometimes, he’d take his aggression out on me, but Johnny would always intervene and get the fist instead. Protectin’ me when I didn’t, couldn't, protect him. I—I tried to stop him whenever I could, but it never ended well. There was one time…” 

The woman halted, clutching the soiled tissue to her chest in both hands. Unconsciously, Claire leaned forward to hear more. 

John did not. He knew what his mother was going to say. 

Mr. McCallister bent down a bit to be more eye to eye with her. “Tell us, Ms. Bender.” 

There was a shuddering breath into the microphone. Laura was not meeting anyone’s gaze. “…one time, Johnny came home from school. I—I think he was fifteen? Well, Jake and I...we were fightin’, you see. And loudly. I think it was about bills. I tried to always give as good as I got with Jake, at least with words, but…it devolved into a physical altercation. The front door opened just as he smacked me in the face. Hard. Um, Johnny ran inside and stepped between Jake n’ me. Jake kept telling him to move, but he refused. So, he started wailin’ on him. 

At this point, I had just gone cold turkey,” Laura went on, another sniff ringing out corner-to-corner of the courtroom. “So I was more lucid than usual. I had my faculties and all. I tried to pull Jake off ‘im. I was screamin’. He was *choking* our son! Nothin’ was working so I—I hit him over the head with a nearby umbrella. All that did was piss ‘im off more, and he pushed me down the stairs, into the den. He was beating the hell outta me, and now Johnny was screamin’. I blacked out pretty quickly, and when I woke up again, I was in the hospital. Um, Shermer General.” 

Murmurings arose amid the galley. The very few people on Jake Bender’s side of the courtroom looked uncomfortably at each other and twitched in their seats. 

‘Good. I *hope* they’re uncomfortable forever.’ Every further word out of her mother-in-law’s mouth was appalling. John had never shared any of this information with her. She wasn’t mad about that, though, just heartbroken for him. For them. 

Mr. McCallister sighed. “What else did Jacob Bender do to you and your son, specifically?”

Laura gnawed on her bottom lip. “He—he pushed ‘im down the stairs. Cut him with his dang Swiss army knife. Punched him. Kicked ‘im. He dragged Johnny out of bed a lot, late at night. As for me, he…” A gulp. “The worst was when I was pregnant…with who was supposed to be our second. And he got drunk n’ pissed and pushed me down the staircase. I, um, lost the baby at seven months. Spent a few weeks in the hospital after that, too.” 

So *that* was how Laura had gone into early labor. The fall must’ve triggered it. 

Bending over at the waist, John braced his elbows on his thighs and buried his face in his hands. Claire wanted to cry for him. 

The prosecutor gently placed both hands palm-down atop the podium. “May I ask why you didn’t leave?”

Laura shook her head. “Jake told me if I ever left, he’d track me down. Threatened Johnny’s life. And part of me…didn’t wanna leave. I was so…*enmeshed* with Jake. I didn’t know what life was without ‘im.” A sob tore from the woman’s throat, and Claire had to clamp her jaw shut to keep from doing so in kind. “It’s my fault. I could-a saved my boy. But I didn’t. And worse, I *added* to it all! I *encouraged* Jake! The one thing a mother’s supposed to do is protect her child, and I failed at even that.” 

In the second row, Brian and Jackie and Andy and Allison all appeared as though they were about to burst into tears at any second. Sylvia Takahari looked dismayed and revolted. 

Mr. McCallister asked Laura what she and John did when things got *really* bad at home. Laura stared directly at Ty, then at Claire herself. “I usually locked myself in my bedroom with a bottle of pills and some booze, but Johnny…he never gave in to any of that, despite havin’ addiction run in his family. He just…escaped to his friend, Ty’s house, the one behind ours. Or Claire’s.” Here, she addressed both parties directly, and Claire straightened. “I’m grateful for both of y’all…for giving my son a place to stay when he couldn’t come home…” 

The prosecutor rested his witness. In her mind’s eye, Claire pictured a battered and bloodied John climbing up her trellis and rapping on the balcony door with his bruised knuckles, one eye swollen, cuts all over his back, a broken rib here and there…

Claire’s eyes briefly slammed shut in remembrance. 

Drake literally jumped at the opportunity to cross-examine Laura. Claire’s fingers tightened until she nearly drew her palms bloody. 

“Ah, *Mrs.* Bender, pleasure to meet you, finally,” the asshole drawled, pointedly using Laura’s former title of “Missus” when she was planning on eschewing the name entirely once the divorce was final. Clearly, neither Drake nor Jake Bender considered the upcoming divorce legitimate. “Your husband talks of nothing else.”

Laura’s shoulders straightened. The forlorn, beaten expression she’d been wearing abruptly vanished, to be replaced with that same cool mask. Her mother must’ve been envious. “Soon to be *ex* husband.” 

The piece of shit laughed like it was all in good fun and he was in on the “joke”. Claire hated him all the more in that moment. “Sure, sure. Now, I *do* have some questions for you if you would oblige me, Mrs. Bender.” 

Her mother-in-law scowled. “It’s *Miss*. And I figured. So, on with ‘em.” 

Drake caught gazes with his human stain of a client before turning back to Laura. “You *allege* all of these…things, ma’am. That my client was verbally and bodily abusive. That he hurt you and your son. That he often kicked him out of the house. Oh, and that my client is single-handedly responsible for you losing a baby in the womb. Isn’t that correct?”

“Absolutely,” Laura affirmed. Her expression said she had no time for bullshit or beating around the bush. “I’d been havin’ excellent scores with my obstetrician until that point.”

“Hmm,” the slimeball murmured, trotting back to the defensive table, rifling through a manila folder, and plucking a piece of paper. He read from it as he approached the bench again. “Says here that your mother, Carla Myerson, was pregnant with your sibling about a decade after you were born, Mrs. Bender, but lost the baby at—“ He squinted down at the printout. “—24 weeks. The official diagnosis was eclampsia.”

Reluctantly, it seemed, Laura Bender nodded. “I remember that. Mom was in the hospital for a month.” 

“According to an OBGYN I spoke to from the National Institute of Health, it is entirely possible that eclampsia can be inherited,” Drake went on as though Laura hadn’t spoken. “So, thus, isn’t it *also* possible that your mother simply passed this unfortunate condition down to you?”

Claire set her jaw. Mr. McCallister declared an objection, but Drake wasn’t acknowledging it. “Isn’t it, Mrs. Bender?”

Laura’s fingers tightened around the mic stand. “I was not having any issues until *your client* threw me down the stairs!” 

The judge called for order. But the worm was still speaking. “Eclampsia doesn’t present itself until later in the pregnancy, ma’am.”

“Again, I reiterate—He. Threw. Me. Down. The. Fricking. STAIRS!”

Laura was losing her cool. The skin of her face had become suffused with red, and her hair had escaped from the loose bun she’d been donning. 

Claire couldn’t fault her. 

“I’m asking if it’s *possible*, Mrs. Bender,” the sleaze reiterated, uncaringly crossing his arms over his chest. 

Laura threw her hands in the air. A habit John often employed when he was frustrated, as well. “I suppose it’s *possible* but not *probable*, *Mr. Drake*. My doctors at the time insisted I went into premature labor because ‘I FELL’.” 

“That leads me to my other query,” he seamlessly segued, still wearing that shit-don’t-stink little smirk. Oh, how Claire *itched* to smack it off his wormy lips. “If your husband was as abusive as you claim, if he, indeed, pushed you down the stairs *as you claim*, then why would you remain with him? Especially with a young son under your care?”

Her mother-in-law’s reddened face blanched as white as a sheet. As did John’s. 

Mr. McCallister jumped up from his seat. “Objection! Your Honor, Ms. Bender has already answered that question!” 

Judge Stevens sighed forlornly. “Unfortunately, Councilor, the jury needs to hear the story—and the justification—from both sides to make a proper verdict. Overruled.” 

If anything, Drake’s slimy smile widened. “Mrs. Bender?”

Laura’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “As I said earlier, Jake threatened to find us and hurt us if I left.”

“But, there were plenty of resources to give you assistance,” Drake pointed out like he actually gave a shit. “You could’ve fled to a shelter; there’s one right down the street from here. You could’ve flown home. You could’ve gone to the police—“ 

“You think they would-a believed me?! Jake had CPS called on his butt a few times, and he always managed to convince ‘em nothing was wrong. Cops don’t believe women over men, and according to the law of the land here, in Illinois, wives still ‘belong’ to their husbands! If I fled, I would’ve been returned to ‘im like a lost suitcase!” the woman spat, the angry puce returning to her complexion. Claire was proud of her for having the guts to say what she, what everyone here, was thinking. 

Drake’s evil little grin did not fade. “And yet, you didn’t *want* to leave, by your own admission. Did you, Mrs. Bender?”

Claire assumed that these words would’ve caused Laura to deflate as she had in the past, but her gaze only tapered more. She leaned far in her seat, hands clutching either side of the podium until her knuckles were raw. “He screwed with my mind, *Mr.* Drake. He had me believin’ no one else would want me. He threatened me. He hurt my son and myself—“ 

“Yes,” the sleazoid interrupted, glancing down at another printout. “You mentioned that your son would spend the night at the prosecution’s. Did you ever witness that firsthand?” 

Claire sat up even straighter and, without turning, reached for her husband’s hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. 

Laura merely scoffed. “Of course not! I never followed my son around. He was a young man at that point; he deserved his privacy!”

“Indeed, if you were so *concerned*, you’d have ascertained that he wasn’t, say, heading to a bar or a club, being rowdy and causing trouble.” Drake braced his hands between hers on the dais. “Perhaps *legal* trouble?”

“Objection!” Mr. McCallister spit before Claire could do so herself. “Johnathon Bender isn’t on trial here, as I have repeatedly pointed out!” 

Judge Stevens nodded once in sharp agreement. “Sustained. Councilor Drake, stay on topic.”

But Laura wasn’t backing down, not afraid of the question. “My son has never been in trouble with the law, and I resent that insinuation—“ 

Drake stared down at the same printout. “He called himself ‘Criminal’, did he not?”

Claire abruptly rose on slightly quivering legs. She was so angry, her whole body was shaking. “It was *high school*! I went by ‘Princess’; I’m not a damn princess!” 

Andy, in the second row, stood in agreement. “I went by ‘Athlete’. I was more than that, I promise.”

Allison beside him. “I was ‘Basketcase’. Granted, I *was* a basketcase. Or so people assumed because I was quiet and wore lots of black. And made weird noises.” 

Brian at the end of the second row beside Jackie. “U—um, I was the ‘Brain’. Like my—my sole characteristic was, you know, being smart and stuff.” 

Even John added his two cents, though he didn’t move to stand, merely crossed his arms and glowered. “I was a rebel, not a criminal. That’s what Dick said I was.” 

The other four original Club members concurred. And, after a brief hesitation, Jackie clambered to a standstill beside her boyfriend, her long black hair pushed out of her face aggressively. “I went to a private school in Lincoln Park. But my classmates definitely had me pegged. They called me ‘Nerd.’ Because I read a lot and wore glasses.”

Judge Stevens called for order. Claire craned her neck as Stubbie stood at attention. “Also an Athlete, here. Or ‘Party-Animal’. No one gave a crap about anything else about me. I was just the guy who threw wicked parties.” 

Eleanor jumped up beside him, hands on her hips. “’Blondie’. Even the *teachers* called me that. Like my hair color was my only defining trait.” 

Josh. ‘Preppy,” Claire’s brother scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You don’t wanna know what I was called in senior year. I wasn’t even out yet, either.” 

Ferris. “’Delinquent’. Principal Rooney had all the administration calling me that. I started wearing it like a badge of honor. What else could I do? And my main man, Cameron, who is on babysitting duty, was ‘Lapdog’ or ‘Wuss’.” 

Sloane. “I was just known as ‘Ferris’ Girlfriend’. I was never anything else. Nothing else *mattered*. Like my whole identity was tied up with my fiancé’s.” Beside her, Ferris grinned at her, proud that she was taking a stand. 

Megan. “’Snob.’ And there were *way* worse girls Claire and I hung around with. CoughBennyHansoncough.” 

Ty. “’Geek’. I liked video games. Hung out at the arcade a lot. And that was the *nicer* sobriquet.” 

Claire was agog as, one by one, people in the galley began to stand and share their own high school superlatives. Everything from ‘Cad’—Lou, because he had a lot of girlfriends in school—to ‘Pothead’—her father—‘Ginger’—Mrs. Takahari—and ‘Bitch’—shockingly, her mother put her two cents in, as well. 

Floored, in the best way, Claire was frozen to the spot as voice after voice added to the conversation. Only the judge banging his gavel and demanding order snapped her out of her reverie. 

“Here’s what I *do* know, Mr. Drake,” Laura added smoothly, doubtlessly bolstered by the audience’s support. “No, I can’t *guarantee* that Johnny went to Ty’s or Claire’s. I *can* guarantee, though, that Jake’s been coverin’ up Frank Lyle’s involvement with the Sally Burckhardt case since ’67. And I have proof.” 

The galley erupted in shocked gasps. Claire’s gaze slid to the couple on the defendant’s side, both of whom had gone the shade of curdled milk. Jake Bender’s eyes were wide, one of the sole true reactions the bastard had displayed all trial. Climbing to his feet clumsily, clamped together as they were with chains, he pointed an incessant finger at his soon-to-be ex-wife and growled. “You BITCH! What ‘proof’ do you have, you stupid—“ 

“Order! Order! ORDER!” Judge Stevens banged his gavel three times, punctuating each “Order!” “Good God. Ms. Bender, is this true?”

All eyes zeroed in on Laura Bender. Drake had gone uncharacteristically silent, orbs wide behind his glasses. 

Laura nodded. “I have it here today. Right here in my purse.” She patted the orange cross-body bag affectionately. “I knew it was there, at the house. But I…was too afraid to come forward. Until now. I’m so sorry.” 

Two police officers appeared behind Mr. and Mrs. Lyle as if conjured by magic. Making sure, Claire figured, that they didn’t try to flee. 

At her shoulder, leaning toward the gate that separated the galley from the front of the courtroom, John’s jaw was hanging slightly ajar. Claire rested a hand on his thigh. She knew this was coming, had known for quite some time now, but hadn’t spoken a word after promising her mother-in-law. Laura wanted to speak to her son herself, once she revealed her knowledge. 

So, it was true. He hadn’t been privy to any of this before now. 

“In light of these events,” the judge continued, slamming his gavel once more. “This court will take a long recess to examine Ms. Bender’s evidence. I’m submitting a continuance. We’ll meet back here after the holiday break. 0930, January 3rd. Court adjourned.” 

Drake shuffled back to the defensive table to collect his things, a blank look on his face. An officer in beige escorted a sputtering Jake Bender out of the courtroom in handcuffs. The Lyles, chaperoned by those same policemen, were close on his heels.

John was stupefied. Ally broke the murmuring silence with the same sentiment Ferris had expressed weeks earlier. 

“Holy SHIT!”   
**  
It wasn’t often these days that John indulged himself in alcohol. 

But today, damnit, he was going to get drunk. 

He’d known—of course he’d known—that his mother’s testimony was going to be difficult to endure. What he *hadn’t* been aware of, however, was her knowledge of his old man being involved in a decades-old cold case. Information she’d apparently been privy to since before he was born. 

As Brad, the barkeep at the Bull, set his (second? third? Who could keep track?) Heineken down beside his recently finished one, John harkened back to right after the last courtdate. Whilst John stormed toward the Audi, confused and angry, his ma tried to talk to him in the parking lot. But just then, he couldn’t deal with it, any of it. He was pissed at everyone—his old man, lo that wasn’t at all novel, his mother for not coming forward eons ago, even at Claire for keeping it a secret from him when she’d apparently known all this for weeks. Months, maybe. He told his ma in no uncertain terms that he just *could not* right now, climbed into the car beside a quiet and lingering Claire, and drove home in stony silence. 

All Claire said to him the rest of the day, after they collected Dani from an unnerved and baby food-covered Frye, was that she understood why he was upset and fucking pissed. Somehow, this made him all the *more* angry. Because now he felt guilty for *being* angry. With her, anyway. 

The next day, Laura approached him again in the park beyond the building, where he’d taken Dani to feed the ducks and blow off steam. He’d tried to escape as soon as he spotted her, but his ma had gotten quick over the years. 

Cornered in the little enclosed dock, he surrendered himself to his fate. Laura sat beside him on the edge of the dock while he held Dani in his lap as she threw pieces of Wonderbread at passing waterfowl, giggling delightedly. 

He was kinda jealous of the kid in that instance. How the mere presence of a few ducks could inspire such gaiety. 

John’s ma folded her legs beneath her and sighed audibly beside him. “Don’t be cross with Claire, Johnny,” she said without preamble. “She was just doin’ what I asked. *I* wanted to be the one to talk to you, to tell you. Thought you should hear it from me.” 

Bender didn’t look at his mother but instead followed the progression of the bread crust as Dani hurled it into the pond. It landed on the surface but was quickly scooped up by a hungry goose. “Would’ve been nice if you had done that *before* your day in court, Ma. So I was prepared to hear that…insanity.” 

In his peripheral vision, he watched Laura wince and gaze down at her lap. “I wanted to…but I didn’t really know how to start. And then the prosecutor said it’d be best if I didn’t tell you beforehand. So’s your reaction would be natural. I guess.”

John coughed a laugh. The “what the FUCKness” of that moment was definitely genuine, he had to admit. He didn’t know why that was necessary but…fuck him if he understood the legal profession. 

“I don’t know,” his ma went on. “That was just a justification. Really, I was bein’ a chickenshit. I didn’t know what to say or… I mean, how do you tell your kid, whom you barely talked to for years, that you knew his daddy was tied to a murder case?” 

She had a point, he supposed. The idea of having *that* kind of conversation with Dani… Shit, he had palpitations over the notion of giving her the ol’ Birds and Bees talk one day. 

One day *far* into the future. He hoped. 

Dani pitched another bread crust into the lake. It bonked off a passing duck’s beak, which almost made him laugh. “You knew this for so damn long. Why’d you keep it a secret?”

Laura stared unseeingly ahead into the afternoon sun. “Your father…could be very persuasive.”

By “persuasive” she meant “He’d have put me in the hospital again if I said a word”, John was pretty sure. 

“I know it was wrong,” she lamented. “That poor family. I found out when I was pregnant with you. Or I suspected, in any event. My mind was all haywire. It’s no excuse but…”

Pregnancy Brain. Claire’d had it *bad* when she was carrying Dani. He’d once found three pairs of her bras in the toilet. 

John asked her how she’d found out, and his ma confessed to discovering some of Sally Burckhardt’s things in their attic, a room his father had always used to stash yet more useless crap. But not *just* useless crap, it appeared. 

“I gave ‘em all the evidence I took,” she continued. “The police. There were some spots of dried blood on the jacket of hers. If it’s Frank’s, well…there’ll be another trial after this one for sure.” 

‘Of fucking course Dad would be buddy-buddy with a murderer.’ “Was he…paying for Drake? ‘Cause I know he’s not doing this shit pro-bono.” 

Laura nodded. “I knew as soon as I saw ‘im. That man don’t work for free, and your daddy couldn’t have afforded him in a million years. *Someone* was funding him, and it didn’t take much digging to find out who.” 

His mother, everyone. The fucking Sherlock Holmes of Shermer. 

‘Sherm-lock Holmes.’ John could’ve sputtered at his own wit. 

“Like I said,” she added, clambering to stand. She reached down and squeezed his knee. “Be mad at me if you want, but don’t be upset with Claire. She did nothin’ wrong.”

So, John had gone back to the apartment, sucked it up, and apologized if he’d been a bit of an ass. His Princess, gratefully, was aware that he *loathed* apologizing, so she simply cut him off with a laugh and told him she was used to it. 

He still felt pretty shitty, so he ordered Japanese. He hated Japanese; the stuff always gave him a stomach ache. But Claire dug sushi. For some reason. 

Now, it was a day before Dani’s first birthday, and he was imbibing beforehand so he wouldn’t be drunk off his ass for her party. That wouldn’t exactly win him Father of the Year, showing up smashed to his kid’s first birthday party. 

Would make a helluva submission into that new “America’s Funniest Home Videos” show, though. Claire was planning a big ass to-do at Chuck E. Cheese—seriously—and he could totally see himself, in his drunken stupor, stuffing himself with pizza, getting stuck in the jungle gym, then passing out in the ball pit. 

And at *least* one guest taping all of it. Delightedly. 

John knocked back the Heineken and slammed his head on the bartop. 

“You keep doin’ that, you’re gonna break the bar with your hard ass head, jackass.”

Slowly picking his head up, John peered beneath half-mast eyelids at Sporto and Brainiac standing a few yards away. The Sport’s arms were folded over his Cubs jersey, and the Dork looked as stupid as usual in a black pullover and a pair of pizza patterned Zubaz pants. John snorted. How they had even known he was here, he had no idea. 

…no, yes he did. Claire. 

Sporto and Brainiac claimed barstools on either side of him. Andy ordered his usual stein of Bud; Big Bri purchased himself a Shirley Temple, extra cherries. John would’ve laughed if he wasn’t already feeling the effects of the alcohol. “Here comes your—your *hiccup* cherry drink, Brainiac.”

Brian blushed. Sporto chuckled into his frothing beer stein. 

“That was some shit the other day,” the Sport said, taking a long drink of his amber alcohol. 

John scoffed. “Yeah, no kidding,” he snarked. “Can’t believe Claire knew about it all first.”

“Y—yeah, um, she—she said you did—didn’t exactly take that well.” Brainiaic sipped at his cherry drink through a tiny straw like a wuss. 

“I apologized,” he grumbled, finishing off his second or third green bottle. 

“Yeah, with *sushi*,” Sporto said, badly imitating the John of over six years ago. “You pussy.”

“Shut up!”

Bri was gazing down at the obnoxiously red concoction in his loose grasp, idly mixing the contents therein with his thin black straw. “You—you know, um, that you couldn’t have kn—known about any…any of that, right? From all you—you’ve told us, your father is, um…”

John flattened his lips. “A hoarder of useless bullshit?” Sighing, he raked a hand through his hair. In his agitation, he’d plum forgotten to slip on his gloves, even in the crisp Chicago-in-November weather. “I guess. And I shouldn’t be surprised. But…I am. It’s like something out of one of Claire’s stupid Lifetime movies.”

“’Lifetime,” Sporto parroted in an absurd high soprano voice. “’Television for women.’” 

“That’s an outdated assessment,” Big Bri argued, looking unreasonably irate. John and Andy gawked at him with quirked eyebrows. 

Again, the Brainiac blushed. John almost cackled. Instead, he hiccupped. 

“Just makes me wonder,” John muttered as Brad set down yet another bottle. Andy grabbed it before he could claim it, insisting Claire would thank him when John glowered. “What else I don’t know about the fuck.”

“I don’t know, man,” Sporto replied, his stein to his mouth. “Dude like that, probably has some skeletons, right?” 

John was hungover to all hell the next day, which did *not* a pleasant party experience make. Especially at fucking Chuck E. Cheese. Why his wife had chosen this particular venue when she could’ve easily afforded to fly everyone first class anywhere in the world, he had no fucking idea. All she kept repeating was “It’s cute!” 

He did not think Chuck E. Cheese was “cute”. He did not think so at all. Slightly older kids running around like chimpanzees on speed, jumping from game console to game console, cashing in tickets for cheap ass prizes that would cost him fifty cents at any Toys R Us. Badly costumed animatronics pretending to put on some sort of rock concert while they scarfed down mediocre greasy pepperoni pizza and watery Hawaiian Punch. Some angry dude in rat mascot regalia who kept scaring the hell out of the littler kids…except Dani; she wasn’t afraid of anything, damn right. Barring thunder. 

The only saving grace was the so-called Parents Lounge. Least here, he could watch MTV. One of the VJs was hosting a metal video marathon. 

…even if he had to sit on a couch shaped to resemble a toy firetruck. Teenage John would’ve had a field day. 

One of the other dads—John could tell by the harried, “what the fuck am I doing here?” look on his face, one he himself had been sporting all afternoon, no doubt—entered the small room and breathed a sigh of relief, lingering in the doorway. “MTV! Thank fuck.” 

John smirked. “As long as you don’t mind having to pretend to be a fucking Dalmatian to watch it.” 

“I’ll take what I can get.”

The guy, who kind of looked like the Sport’s older brother, he had to admit, introduced himself as Jake—Bender had to keep himself from wincing; there were many dudes named Jake, many dudes—and, as he lowered himself on the firetruck couch, John acknowledged that he possibly looked even more exhausted than Bender himself was. 

When this Jake admitted that he was here with his wife and two-year-old son, John needed no further explanation. ‘They don’t call ‘em Terrible Twos for nothin’.’

He was assuredly not looking forward to Dani’s ascent into toddlerhood, that was for damn sure. As for the teen years…forget it. If she was anything like him…

Well. That period was going to be equally infuriating as entertaining, he knew that much. 

“It’s his birthday,” the Greg Clark lookalike said, wincing. “My wife, Kristy…she’s showing him the concert…thing. But I needed me some *real* music.” 

John could definitely understand that. He still had that damn “Let’s Have A Party” song stuck in his head. 

“You have one here yourself?”

Nodding, Bender didn’t glance away from Poison wanting something to believe in. “Turns one today. I, uh, just needed a breather. There are only so many presents I can watch her open.” And Dani had many. Many, many, many. Claire had invited the entirety of her Mommy and Me class, mommies and mes included. Not to mention all of the usual suspects. Rich had gifted her this ceramic music box that was entirely breakable and incredibly expensive. The thing was imported. From *Milan*. It played some kind of Italian lullaby. 

Jake chuckled. “One-year-old girl. Good luck, man.”

Just as John was about to mumble that he’d need it, a skinny brunette appeared in the doorway carrying a kid dressed in a pair of denim overalls. She was cute, if anxious-looking. “Jake, we need you.”

And Claire wasn’t too far behind her. ‘It’s like they can smell it.’ “Danielle keeps saying ‘Dada, cake!’ She either wants you to have cake, or she thinks you *are* cake.”

John rose from the couch and grinned. “I’m going with the second one. Because I’m sweet and delicious.”

“Not to mention crumby.” 

Dani finished opening her presents—most of her presents; his and Claire’s they were saving for tonight—briefly got lost in a sea of wrapping paper (literally; they had to dig her out), and watched her devour an extra-large piece of cake. Chocolate, obviously, filled with pudding so it would go down easier. John had no complaints and scarfed down three slices. He never said no to chocolate cake. Chocolate anything, really. 

Chocolate suppositories, he might take issue with. 

Dani was going to grow up spoiled rotten, and he knew there likely wasn’t a damn thing he could do about that short of moving the three of them to Mars. And still, Rich and co. would find a way. ‘Probably buy their own spaceship. Call it the U.S.S. Standishprise.’ He and Claire were living on the Magnificent Mile. On the North Side. Not just the North Side. The North-North Side. The Mile was like…the Beverly Hills of Chicago’s Metro Area. One was apt to run into bold names in this neighborhood, as he’d demonstrated already at Doc’s; he’d damn near burst into tears upon glimpsing Harrison Ford at the OBGYN. 

Literally smacking into none other than Hugh Hefner at the video store on West Ontario Street continued to stand as the most insane moment of his life. Yeah, *that* Hugh Hefner. Guy had a vacation house up here, who knew? And there was John having just left the bathroom with a copy of “Playboy” in his hands while Hef was perusing the back of “Uncle Buck” to rent for one of his grandkids. 

Surreal. 

Dani ended up getting *a lot* of presents. A LOT. A porcelain doll from fucking Tokyo here. A genuine vintage jack-in-the-box that had once belonged to some English duke or something there. A four-foot-tall Barbie dressed in a pink tutu that scared the hell out of him whenever he looked at it. A set of bizarre ceramic elephants with rubies for eyes; Nora had bought her those. 

From the Brainiacs: a miniature chemistry set, never mind that she wasn’t old or dexterous enough to operate most of that shit yet. Sporto and Basketcase: Play-Doh and finger paints; *that* was going to be fun getting out of the carpet. Jockstrap and “Blondie”: one of those ViewFinder things in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s head with a couple of theme-y film reels. Josh and Mikkel: a new VCR because they were richie show-offs. Ty and Megan: a redheaded Cabbage Patch doll. And Bueller and Sloane: a blow-up paddling pool featuring Wayne Newton’s smiling, bulbous head on the bottom. Frye had stuck his name on the card hurriedly in different colored ink. 

John shook his head. Only a year old and Dani already had more crap than she knew what to do with. 

Helluva lot more than a carton of cigarettes, that was for damn certain. 

His ma—whose own gift of a Slinky was destined to break and soon—picked the kid up and put her on a little carousel, astride a tiny porcelain pony. Claire instantly began snapping photos. John laughed when the carousel began moving and quite the confused look came over Dani’s visage. 

He even, at one point, went after her in the jungle gym and, yes, got himself stuck. Those enclosed slides were not made for men of his size. The ladder company down the street were required to get him out, and Claire laughed and laughed. And did not stop laughing until they got home. 

Back at the apartment, Dani’s “spoiled to all hell” stance was further confirmed with yet two more gifts. John unveiled for her a sort of clubhouse in the nursery, which he’d been secretly working on in his spare time in preparation for her first birthday, one that he planned to add on to the older she grew (right now, it was mainly a single room with a table and chairs, not that she could sit in them yet—details). And Claire…he eyed the box with clear air holes dubiously. 

Dani clumsily pushed off the top of the gift box and gave a delighted squeak when out popped…some sort of sad-eyed hound dog with really long ears. Like, *really* long ears. 

“The hell is that?” he sputtered as the…*thing* tripped out of the box and crawled inside Dani’s lap. 

“It’s a basset hound puppy!” Claire trilled, smiling into the kid’s face and running a manicured hand through the hound dog’s tricolored fur. “I saw a picture of one in the doctor’s office. And then someone was giving them away on the street corner the other day. Seemed like fate.” 

John sneered and folded his arms over his white t-shirt. The dog couldn’t have been older than a few weeks, if that. “Is it even housebroken?”

His wife rolled her eyes. “Yes, John.” A blink. “I think. If not, I’ll teach it. Him. Right?” Lowering herself to her stomach, she peered beneath the dog’s butt, which was sticking up in the air under its dipstick-like tail. “Yep. Him. Definitely him.” 

That was something, at least. The very least. “Claire, I thought we weren’t gonna get any legged animals until we had an actual house.” Pete didn’t count; he didn’t *have* any legs. “And when we *did* get one, I’d want a real dog. A man’s dog. You know, one of those dogs whose silhouette is on those ‘Beware of Dog’ signs.” 

Like a German shepherd. A Rottweiler. Maybe a Doberman or a pit bull. Not a frigging basset hound! 

Claire pouted. ‘Damnit! She knows I can’t resist that look!’ “But he’s so cute! And Danielle loves him. Look!” 

John looked. And went soft. Sure enough, chubby little arms were encircled around a furry neck and a pair of dangling, floppy black ears. 

The dog stared up at him and whined. 

‘That’s it. I’m done. Take my Man Card. Put a fork in me, I’m finished.’ 

He had the wife. He had the kid. He had the dog. And not even a badass dog but a *family* dog, that kind you see on joke cards you send out to everyone on your list during the holidays. His transformation, his full transformation, into John Bender the Husband, John Bender the Father was now complete.

John threw up his hands, defeated. “Fine. You win. Again. As long as he doesn’t have fleas.” 

“Yay!” Claire brought her hands together, and Dani imitated her, then embraced the stupid, sad-eyed dog again. 

‘…I guess he *is* kinda cute. Oh, fuck me.’ 

That night, John arranged a miniature dog bed out of extra pillows and blankets for the mutt. He fell asleep on it. Within an hour of lights out, he was curled up on the edge of *their* bed, snoring away. Loudly. 

While John Bender pretended to be annoyed, in reality, he could not prevent himself from grinning as he drifted back to sleep.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: While domestic abuse was made illegal in 1920 in the US, it wasn't really until the 70s and women's liberation that it was more fully taken seriously, specifically in lower income neighborhoods. As it is, there are many states that still allow husbands or wives to take liberties with their spouses against their strict wishes.
> 
> Note 2: lol technically, you're supposed to feed ducks lettuce and stuff. Carrots. But...no one really knew that in the 90s. As a kid, I fed those ducks SO much Wonderbread, man. Apparently, I was doing a bad, bad thing. 
> 
> Note 3: Chuck E. Cheese was founded in 1977, but really hit it off in the birthday party circuit in the 80s and 90s. Yes I did have my own birthday there, why do you ask?
> 
> Note 4: America's Funniest Home Videos bowed in 1989. That was YouTube before YouTube.
> 
> Note 5: Furthermore, Lifetime launched in 1984. I was surprised to read that. Lifetime is older than I am!
> 
> Note 6: This fic was partially inspired by She's Having A Baby, which I watched after TBC at 3 am, slightly inebriated. Obvs, I needed to squeeze in a cameo. I had already used Kevin Bacon as a face claim for Andy's older brother tho so...woops. They're doppelgangers?
> 
> Note 7: It's funny to me that the lady who was in some of those 80s movies grew up to be the Countess of Grantham.
> 
> Note 8: Hef (RIP) was originally from Chicago. He lived on the Northwest side and went to Steinmetz Elementary.
> 
> Note 9: I wonder if John marvels that the kid in Uncle Buck looks just like the prosecutor's son. How about that!
> 
> Note 10: The part with the basset hound is inspired by a Psych episode. Lassitier gets a basset hound puppy for his wedding that at first he does not want because it is not a "man's dog"...until it proves an affinity for finding dead bodies. "Who's a good puppy?! Who's a good baby?!" I'm bingeing that show now and it's hilarious. There are a lot of 80s references and 4 out of 5 TBC actors guest star. Only Emilio is the holdout, likely because he was busy dealing with his wayward sibling (the show was on during the "winning all the time" years). AMH plays the interim chief of police of the Santa Barbara PD, Ally Sheedy is one half of a murderous duo (she's like if Allison went level 99 Basketase, hair included), Molly is a circumspect nurse taking care of Chucky's Brad Dourif, and Judd plays a scientist. I am bummed tho that the writers didn't have him play himself. The characters on the show namecheck him a lot, it would've been funny lols.


	54. Chapter 53: You Can't Handle The Truth! Part Who Knows at This Point (Feat: The Land Before Time)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K, I finished this part last night after a Four Loko and some KFC. Their biscuits are underrated.
> 
> BTW, probs just a chapter or two left plus an epilogue of this one. Then I may add a one-shot futurefic (read, early 2000sish, so still a period piece lol I can't believe that's considered a "period" now) in Dani's POV that will definitely be a one-shot this time, not turn into a 50-shot like this one did, then the prequel. Then my wrists will rebel and jump ship.
> 
> Also, again, content warning--the last two parts describe physical and mental abuse so if you're at all triggered by this please skip!

Chapter 53: You Can't Handle the Truth!: Part Who Knows at This Point (Feat: The Land Before Time)

John wanted to *call* him something awesome at least. A name that would inspire fear even if his breed did not. Something like Bullet or Killer or…Richard Ramirez. 

Alas, the dog was technically Dani’s, and she decreed that he would be christened after her new favorite movie, “The Land Before Time”. You know, that schtick about talking cartoon dinosaurs. Or whatever. He’d been made to sit through that shit more times than he cared to admit…or would, even if held up at gunpoint. Especially to Sporto and the Jockstrap, they’d never let him forget it. Particularly the fact that he didn’t, eh, actually *mind* the flick. It was all right, as far as kids’ movies went. And he loved him some dinosaurs. 

Having to watch it three times in a row, though…he’d come *this close* to sticking a fork in his eye and calling it a day. 

Anyway, Dani insisted on calling the mutt “Little Foot”, a sort of homage to the main character in the movie, a brachiosaurus named Little Foot. *This* Little Foot, however, was erroneously named, as his feet were enormous. Between his big, floppy ears and the baseball mitts he called paws, the dog was constantly falling all over the place. John had taken him for a walk earlier—mostly so he would take a crap somewhere that *wasn’t* the living room—and, catching a scent, he’d tripped and nearly fallen head-first into a whole shitload of garbage bags. 

The mutt *did* manage to sniff out one of those annoying as all hell shutterbugs, though. This one was hiding in the damn *lake*. John had pulled him out by his collar and kicked him in the balls. 

At least Dani wasn’t with him this time. He’d have to explain to her, very delicately, only to do that when a guy was being very, very aggravating. It was mean otherwise. And definitely do not practice on him. 

Uncle Andy though…

Nah. Not even he would stoop that low. Maybe. 

The rest of the holiday break passed mostly uneventfully…or as uneventfully as could be considered amongst their ragtag group of misfits. Since they’d been forced to skip Halloween for the trial—Jockstrap was *really* put out by that; he hated forgoing an excuse to party—Claire insisted on cooking her own Thanksgiving meal. Considering his Princess couldn’t cook for crap, when she told him, John had burst out laughing, and did not stop for two days. Annoyed, Claire called Megan for assistance after she nearly burned the building down trying to de-thaw a turkey. 

The sole saving grace, before Ty’s girlfriend stepped in, was the old-timey housewife duds Claire insisted on cooking in. The fifties-style dress. The red lipstick. The pearls. John mentally added another kink to his ever-growing list. 

When the Noracaine learned of her daughter’s plans, she tried to send her Chef Francesco and was aghast that she wanted to do it all herself. The whole process took four days—four days in which neither John nor any of the guys were allowed within 10 feet of the kitchen. He had to keep all his food stuffed in the little key fridge in the closet. Either that or starve. The odors emanating from the kitchen and living room were…dubious at the best of times, at least until Megan offered her services. Then, he began to actually smell something that vaguely resembled “food”. 

In the end, a huge Thanksgiving buffet was prepared, all classic American dishes shoved inside tin foil serving plates. They all lined up, one after the other, to pile turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, broccoli and cheese, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and slices of cornbread onto cheap plastic plates like they were at an Old Country Buffet, which was kinda weird, but whatever. No one realized until the very last second that the apartment didn’t have much in the way of a dining room, so they ended up claiming seats anywhere they could fit. From the weird settee to the floor to the coffee table. The Noracaine insisted on trying to feed Dani herself; leaving the dining nook with marshmallows in her hair and drenched in cranberry sauce, John knew unequivocally that she’d never attempt that again.

Later, Sporto switched on the football game. The Bears were playing the Packers, their greatest adversary. The Sport and the Jockstrap were going on and on about Jim Harbaugh and Neal Anderson. Whatever. John didn’t give a shit. The only time he cared about football was when he was kicking ass in Madden. The commercials were fun, though. 

His ma then flicked on a Bulls game. She’d grown into a real basketball fan over the years. Watching her and the two Sports scream trash talk at the screen and blow kisses at Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen was…surreal. 

By December of that year, Claire was mostly healed up, thank God. Since they didn’t have to be back at court until after the New Year, his wife proposed a “Christmas honeymoon”, as she called it, away from prying eyes and the lavish parties the Standishes threw every year. Rich had a friend in the Ultra Luxe Hotel Industry who owed him a favor—who *didn’t*, in the Chicago area, owe Richard Standish a favor or two?—and cashed in on that request. They booked a suite at the Peninsula Chicago on East Superior Street—naturally, it was on East Superior Street. 

While this was, technically, their overdue honeymoon, John couldn’t *exactly* label it as such as they’d taken Dani with them, loathe to leave her around Christmastime; they couldn’t get up to as many sexy shenanigans as he would’ve liked with a one-year-old infant crawling around. However, they were staying here in this spectacular room at the very top of this just as spectacular hotel for free. Sure, that meant that they didn’t have access to butler or maid service, but he didn’t care. He’d happily clean up after himself if he got to partake of all this suite’s offerings. The huge ass shower and tub with the waterfall faucet. The full-size dining room and table. The foosball table and mini game room. The sauna. The *private pool and Jacuzzi on the balcony*. The bedroom loft. The suite had two floors; he couldn’t fucking believe it. 

John whistled slowly as he set down the bags (again, his and Dani’s single one and Claire’s many, many valises) with a soft plop. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.” 

Speaking of Toto…

“Woof.” 

Yeah, they’d also taken the mutt. He didn’t trust kennels, never had. Ever since Ty’s dog died in one when they were kids. 

John gazed down at the top of Not So Little Foot’s furry head. “Don’t shit on the rug, okay? We don’t have cleaning service.”

The dog gazed up at him with those sad, reddened eyes. Claire claimed they were not unlike his own when he was high. 

“Don’t you look at me like that.” 

Claire sighed. “Oh! We’re really going to have to get him neutered…” 

Gasping dramatically, John bent down (far down—the mutt was stumpy as hell) and braced his palms against floppy back ears nearly long enough to sweep the floor. “We will *not*! Never use the neu-word around the dog again, Cherry.” 

“Newtewed!” the kid cried, poking the mutt in his barrel chest. The dog just sat there and took it. 

“Great. Now you’ve got Dani saying it.” John stared down at the top of the dog’s head. “Don’t worry. No one’s lopping off your balls, dog. Not while I’m around.” 

Claire rolled her eyes. “John, his…*package* is huge!” 

“He thanks you.” Digging into his jeans pocket, he tossed the mutt a Milkbone. “And so will his first bitch.” 

The wife snorted and muttered something about going to look for the Yellow Pages. ‘She can look all she wants. There’s no way that dog is going to be n-e-u-worded.’ Not while he had breath in his body. 

The mutt gave a whine and shook his massive dog balls. John was proud. 

Dani had started graduating to using Pull-Ups—though he didn’t see much difference between them and diapers; they still had to be changed, she still had to be cleaned, and the process was just as disgusting—and had even started standing on her own, balancing against any nearby surface. Her latest favorite “nearby surface” was the dog himself. Already, the mutt had been trained not to move when tiny hands were braced on his fur. 

John had also purchased a litter box and trained him to use it so he didn’t have to walk him all the fucking time. Claire called him a lazy asshole. John considered himself a genius. 

It was hard—no pun intended—to get busy with an infant and a puppy wandering around nearby, John was quickly discovering. Though they had a fucking suite at their disposal, Claire was not comfortable leaving Dani alone in a strange room on a whole different floor (only the master bedroom and a bathroom comprised the whole of the loft) so they had her remain with them, John lugging the cradle the hotel had provided from downstairs to plop it beside the bed. So…baby sleeping mere feet away. In addition, there was no door to keep errant canines out, and a loping, sad-eyed mutt would poke his frowny, cold snout in at exactly the moment he managed to convince Claire Dani was sleeping and wouldn’t hear or see a thing. Which, awkward no matter what way you slice it. John could clearly discern the Eeyore theme song playing in his head following the dog around whenever he moved. 

At one point, the mutt leaped on the bed just as John managed to cajole his wife out of her shirt, and the ensuing creak of the mattress woke Dani up. She wailed, Claire shrugged her top back on with a pointed glower in his direction—John’s, not the dog’s—and rounded the bed to scoop up the kid, presumably in order to put those luscious boobs of hers to good use. 

‘Lucky for Dani ‘cause I sure as shit ain’t benefitting tonight.’ This was their honeymoon, wasn’t it?

John glared at the dog. “Thanks. So much.”

The mutt, now curled up at the end of the bed, stared up at him pathetically beneath a wrinkled forehead and whimpered. 

They tried again the following afternoon, but then Dani got sick from something she’d eaten that morning—probably the circumspect tapioca pudding with bizarre globs of vegetables Claire had bought from Mariano’s—so, thus, their sexytime fun was pre-empted; instead, they spent the rest of the day running back and forth changing onesies soiled with spit-up and Pull-Ups and diapers soiled with, ugh, not spit-up. 

On the third day, the mutt got into some chocolate from the minibar and, freaking out, Claire took him to the nearest vet. But, hilariously, the dog turned out to be fine, completely unaffected.  
Whereas most breeds couldn’t stomach things like chocolate, sugar-free gum, onions, garlic, all of that, it seemed that basset hounds were an exception to that particular rule. “I’ve seen *a lot* of bassets,” the doc at the animal hospital said, a wry smirk about his mouth. “All from owners worried after their pets get into taboo stuff. With almost any other breed, it’d be a valid concern. With basset hounds…not so much. They have garbage guts. Their stomachs are like trash compactors. They can eat anything and never have a problem. Except maybe bloat.” 

And boy, was the dog bloated. For the whole rest of the day, he didn’t move from the couch. And burped a lot. 

Ultimately, on the fourth day, they *did* manage to put the “honey” in honeymoon (or the “moon” in honeymoon, he supposed, depending on how one looked at it)…quickly, during a nooner in the balcony hot tub. They’d done it in a pool before but never in a Jacuzzi. Not totally, anyway. There was definitely something to be said for Jacuzzi sex. Especially with those jets on. They practically did all the work for him. 

When they returned home a few days after Christmas, it was to their answering machine blinking *rapidly*. Confused, he and Claire traded glances, and his wife was the one to press the PLAY button. To their surprise, McCallister’s harried voice echoed over the speaker. John’s blood turned to ice in his veins, sure that something horrible had occurred with the case, like Drake had somehow gotten his father off or something out of nowhere, but nope. Why McCallister was calling had nothing whatsoever to do with the case. Apparently, the family had taken that vacation to Paris over the holidays…but accidentally left behind something pretty important. Some*one*. Ahem. Their youngest son. The one who was always getting into it. 

“Please! Do either of you mind running to the house and checking in on him? I think you remember the address. Uh, I *swear* we didn’t intend this. We, er, just miscounted. There were fourteen of us and, well…. My wife is about to hop a plane back to Chicago, but it’s storming and it’s hard to—“ BEEP. The prosecutor was abruptly cut off. 

Claire was already shrugging her coat on, most likely intent on hightailing it to Winnetka, when McCallister’s second message came through. 

“Kate’s on her way. She got a connecting flight; it’s gonna take forever. I told her to wait for the one leaving tomorrow but she’s frantic. I called Richard, too, and he said Kevin wasn’t at the house. But, um, his sled was in the front yard. And…a Michael Jordan standee was in the window? Strange.” BEEP.

Third message. Starting with laughter. “Oh. Never mind, never mind. Kevin’s safe. Um, we’re all back home. In Chicago. Took that flight my wife didn’t wanna wait for. Get this, he wasn’t at the house when Richard went to check because he was buying milk. And eggs. And fabric softener. Funny kid. Still don’t know about the Michael Jordan standee, though. And I found a gold tooth in the living room, don’t know what *that’s* about. Also…there was a flood in the house across the street. Odd. Seems that someone left the faucet running. We found Buzz’s pet tarantula just…walking around the house. Kevin says he accidentally broke his tank. There are paint cans hanging from the railing. And feathers in the dining room. What the hell did my son get up to while we were gone? Anyway, no harm, no foul. Disregard these messages. Hope you all had a Merry Christmas!” BEEP.

John and Claire met each other’s stare, blinked slowly, and burst out laughing. While she shrugged off her coat and hung it up, John was bent over clutching his knees in hilarity. ‘I like that kid.’ 

Claire dialed McCallister back while Bender continued to chortle. “Hi, Mr. McCallister. I am very sorry, we were away! We just got your messages now… Yes, we had a lovely time. Is Kevin okay? ...Good, I’m glad—what’s that? Oh, that’s just John. He thought your messages were hysterical… Yeah, I think you’ve got a mini him on your hands, too.” John’s laughter increased in volume. “Did you ever figure out where that gold tooth came from? No? How about the Michael Jordan standee? No go, either, huh? It’s Buzz’s? But Kevin won’t tell you why it was at the window? …What do you mean, your neighbor’s visiting? I thought your son was scared of him? Not anymore? Okay. *Bloodstains*?! Where?! The basement? Really, what *did* he get up to while you guys were in Paris?” 

John had collapsed on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks. The dog crawled all over him, tail wagging and tongue lapping. Dani quickly followed. “Ugh. One of you stinks, and it better be the mutt.” 

“Okay. As long as he’s all right, I guess? Hope you had a Merry Christmas, Mr. McCallister! Happy New Year!” 

When she hung up the oddly-shaped telephone with a soft click, Not So Little Foot’s enormous balls were in his face. 

Claire placed her hands on his hips. “Again, I must reiterate—we are getting him neutered.”

“Newtewed!” 

John peered aside the dog’s weirdly spiraled ass. “We are *not*! The dog’s nuts are *majestic*! You’re just jealous.” 

Up went one red eyebrow. “Jealous that I don’t have balls? Oh, yes. Incredibly.” 

Bender opened his mouth to reply, his index finger raised, then slammed shut his jaw after a few seconds. “All right, I don’t have a proper response to that. But this dog stays ball…full.” 

Claire rolled her eyes. “Must be nice in your little fantasy world.”

“It is,” John agreed, pushing the mutt off before he farted in his face or something. “There are rivers of chocolate. And flowers made of taffy. And all the oompa-loompas look like Dick. Leisure suits included.” 

Snorting, the Princess picked Dani up beneath her chubby arms and carried her into the nursery. Maybe that stink had been coming from her after all.

On New Year’s Eve, McCallister and his wife were so relieved to return home to find Kevin—and their house—(mostly, in the latter’s terms) in one piece that they agreed to host a pretty wicked party for the first time ever. One that Kevin, suspiciously, had no problem planning himself. Invitees were encouraged to come dressed as their favorite pop culture pair. Claire wanted to go as Baby and Johnny in “Dirty Dancing”. John flat out told her “Hell NO”, in spite of her luscious, luscious pouty lips and “come fuck me” eyes. He would absolutely not doll himself up in those tight jeans Patrick Swayze wore in the movie and an overabundance of hairspray and, like, *shimmy* into Winnetka, no, thank you. They settled on Danny and Sandy in “Grease”. The jeans were still tight, but he could wear a leather jacket (John Travolta donned a letterman’s sweater at the end of that movie, but Claire gave him a pass there), and Cherry looked hot as hell in those pants. 

They dressed Dani up as Greased Lightning. She made an adorable car. 

Invitees were also encouraged to bring along whoever, so Claire extended the solicitation to the usual suspects. Sporto and Basketcase and the two Brainiacs met them at the apartment. 

Tights and Mrs. Tights were dressed as Westley and Buttercup from “The Princess Bride.” ‘How ironic. For once, *Al* is the princess.’ 

And the Sport looked like a fucking pansy. 

John opened the door to Andy dressed like an emo Robin Hood and burst out laughing some more. “Hey, Zorro. Captain Monasterio went that-a-way!” He tagged his thumb over his shoulder. 

Sporto whipped his (fake) sword out of its (plastic, lame) sheath. “Don’t be jealous ‘cause I rock this shit.” 

John jeered. “Yeah. Right. Fucking Pirate of Penzance.” His gaze ticked beside him to the Basketcase, draped in an ice blue gown, a sparkly silver tiara, and a long blonde wig. She looked quite un-Allison. “Look at you. You’re actually in a color!” 

Al flipped him off. ‘Ah. Now, *that’s* the Basketcase I know and tolerate.’ 

“You’re one to talk,” Sporto scoffed, strolling into the apartment with his wife. Bender shut the door behind them. “If those pants were any tighter, I’d wonder how you were alive.”

John gave a hip-thrust in response. 

Claire sauntered out of the nursery, carrying a car-clad Dani—whom Westley and Buttercup, those lameoids, fawned over—just as the doorbell buzzed again. Picking up the pace a bit, she trotted toward the front foyer and threw open the door. 

The Brainiacs were dressed as Wayne and Diane Szalinski from “Honey I Shrunk the Kids”. Naturally. 

‘Any excuse for the Dork to wear a lab coat.’ 

At the house, the party was already in full-swing when they arrived. Mrs. McCallister, dolled up to resemble Ingrid Bergman in “Casablanca”, greeted them by literally dancing to the front door, quite obviously a wee tipsy and clutching a bottle of Cristal, as “Cool Jerk” by The Capitols played somewhere in the background. Probably over some of that awesome stereo equipment John had seen last time he’d been here. 

“Oh, kids!” she exclaimed, enveloping them all in clumsy embraces. She cooed and tut-tutted over Dani. “You all look great! I love how you *hiccup* dressed the baby up as the car!”

Claire smiled through her hot as fuck post-Sandra Dee makeup. “Sorry. We, uh, didn’t really have anywhere to leave her. Except with our neighbor, and I’m kinda reluctant to do that…” 

So was he. Last time, she hadn’t asked his opinion, and the kid came back with this weird symbol on her forehead. Now, he was suspicious that Mrs. Lowing was into some crazy shit.

Perhaps *that* was how her family stayed so rich. They were sacrificing virgins to God King Thoros or something. 

Mrs. McCallister waved her off. “That’s no pr—problem. Got Kevin’s old crib *hiccup* ready for ya right upstairs.” 

The Princess followed Drunk Ilsa Lund up the stairs to Kevin’s old room while John trailed the others into the den, where the party was on. He was surprised to run into Bueller, Sloane, and Frye here. Evidently, Bueller’s sister was dating one of McCallister’s older sons. ‘Who knew? Small world.’ 

Bueller was Ricky Ricardo to Sloane’s Lucy. And Frye was Fred Mertz. His date, of course, was Ethel. ‘Too bad they didn’t paint themselves black and white.’ 

Jeanie Bueller and Jeff McCallister were Tony and Jeannie from “I Dream of Jeannie”. John was reminded of his huge childhood crush on Barbara Eden. 

The party was pretty sweet. Three different TVs blasted three different New Year’s countdowns—“Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve”, specials on MTV and CBS. Nirvana was performing on MTV, that was fun. He couldn’t believe Dick Clark was still hosting; the guy had to be 100. At least he was a *fun* Dick. 

The champagne was flowing. Music was blasting. Kevin, dressed up in a Starfleet uniform, had affixed that same Michael Jordan standee to a model train and had it sailing around the room delivering aperitifs. Then, as soon as midnight hit, because he was only eight-years-old, his ma ushered him up the stairs with his bed-wetting cousin, Fuller, but the kid snuck back down in a matter of minutes. Using a device he’d arranged outside the attic window involving a pair of bike handles and a rope. Last he saw, he was showing Brainiac how it worked. 

Smart kid. 

John got so smashed (which didn’t take much these days), Claire managed to coerce him into a karaoke version of “You’re the One That I Want”. Like, full-blown drunken cruise ship duet. He didn’t even recall if he had remembered to appropriately shitt-ify his voice or not. Or if the alcohol had done that naturally. 

His uncle was here, too…wandering around somewhere pretending to be Dustin Hoffman in “Tootsie”. He rocked those pumps of Claire’s, he had to admit.

The only thing missing from this night was his best friend. Ty would love this shit. Too bad he was in Shermer with Megan visiting his folks. He’d have a field day, and he’d kick himself for missing this opportunity for blackmail. 

So, yeah, okay. John Bender had both feet firmly planted in the Husband and Father door. He had the wife. He had the kid. He had the sad-eyed, floppy-eared family dog. But…there were major perks to that existence. Major perks.

Even if said existence meant that he’d lost his tolerance for hard liquor. That, he could deal with. 

As the ball dropped on 1991, John Bender kissed his hot as hell wife, mentally kissed his awesome kid, and hoped to all hell that the mutt wasn’t shitting on the carpet back home.  
**

Judgement Day. 

And Andy Clark wasn’t alluding to the proposed sequel to James Cameron’s awesome “Terminator” movie, either, where Arnie’s T-800 was supposed to be the *good* guy (that meant the T-1000 had to be heinous; he couldn’t wait). Today was January 3rd, and thus, the beginning of Bender and Claire’s testimonies. Everyone else had already gone. Mr. and Mrs. Standish. Laura Bender. Ty. A few witnesses to the crash and a handful of head-shrinkers. Himself and Ally. 

On the bastard’s side, too. That asshole psych. The Lyles (who were, circumspectly, absent today; Bender’s mom’s evidence must’ve proved substantial after all). Jake Bender’s “friends and coworkers”, whom he had to be blackmailing somehow because a dude like that couldn’t *have* legitimate friends, Andy was sure. 

Claiming his usual second-row seat beside his wife, Andy watched with a keen eye whilst his friend, reluctantly, it seemed, clambered up from the front bench and shuffled to the podium as his name was called. Josh, also in the front row, shifted uncomfortably, as did Ty beside Allison. Megan placed a calming hand on his thigh. 

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you, God?” barked the bailiff, glaring at him. 

Bender had whispered to Andy earlier that, a few years ago, he’d once or twice mooned this very guy in a drunken stupor. Dude had held a grudge ever since. 

In spite of the tension tightening every muscle in his face, a corner of his jaw ticked. “Yeah, sure, man. I mean, Officer Man.” 

Somewhere to his right, Ty’s distinct bark of laughter rang out amid the otherwise silent courtroom. Drake spun in his table to glare at him. Ty ignored it, as did the rest of them. 

The bailiff glowered and grabbed the bible back. “Sit down, smartass.”

Bender saluted and took a seat in the bench. 

Andy guffawed. Allison snorted. 

Claire just shook her head. 

Mr. McCallister—whom, Andy noticed, still sported glitter in his hair from the party the other night—looked amused as he approached the bench and his witness, hands clasped behind his back. “Mr. Bender, thank you for your testimony today. I know it’s not easy for you.”

Bender shrugged, feigning a nonchalance that Andy could see right through. “Whatever I can do to send *that* asshole—“ Here, he pointed directly to his shithead father, seated at the defensive table in his head-to-toe orange jumpsuit with his legs chained and an unreadable expression on his pale face. “—behind bars for good. ‘Sides.” Another bob of the shoulders. “It’s not like I got anything better to do today. And John’s fine, dude.” 

The prosecutor chuckled. “Fair enough. Okay, John, your mother already explained to me her own point of view, as you know. Can you tell me, in your own words, what it was like growing up with Jacob Bender as a father? But first can you clarify your relationship to my client, Claire Standish?”

The Criminal who wasn’t a criminal cleared his throat. “Claire’s my wife. Uh, we have a one-year-old. My friend’s ma is watching her now.” Ty’s mom. She damn well went gaga over the prospect of looking after a baby again for the day. “If my wife wants to try for a third after this,” Big Bill had said after Mrs. Carter had nearly fallen into a baby coma once she took Danielle. “I blame you. And am docking your pay.” “As for my old man…heh. Well. It was no barrel of monkeys, I can assure you.”

“Can you elaborate?”

At the defensive table, Drake sighed loudly, as though he was “tired” of all of this bleeding heart mumbo-jumbo. Claire’s side of the galley turned to glare at him in unison. 

“Uh.” Bender ran a slightly trembling hand through his hair. “It was no barrel of monkeys for as long as I can remember, really. Every recollection I have of my father growing up…it was always all ‘Be wary’ at the least. ‘Be frigging terrified’ at the most. When I was younger, it wasn’t *as* bad, which I realize now is splitting hairs. It’s like asking which eating utensil you’d rather shove in your eyeball.  
‘Well, a spoon won’t hurt AS much.’ He still beat me, just didn’t make me bleed or leave as many marks on me. I guess…because my grandpop was still alive. He didn’t wanna seem so much of a monster to him. He still kinda respected the man.

When he died, the claws *really* came out. Before that, I could classify everything my old man did to me as ‘smacking me around’. After, he almost beat me damn near to death at least once.” 

As one, the prosecution side of the galley cringed. Claire had blanched totally white. Hearing this testimony had to be the hardest for her. This was her damn husband, after all, speaking of waves of bullshit he had endured for years before she’d entered his life. Unconsciously, Andy reached for Allison’s hand, imagining all the mental hell she herself had been put through because of her parents. And how she’d largely endured it alone for many years. 

Ally rested her head on his shoulder.

Ty made a sound of acknowledgement, harkening back to his own testimony, no doubt. Andy grimaced just thinking about it. 

“So, your grandfather,” Mr. McCallister started, pacing before the podium with his hands still clamped behind the small of his back. His tone was as gentle as the one he’d used when speaking with Laura Bender. In the back beside Ferris Bueller, Lou was nodding with pursed lips. “Is this your father’s or mother’s father?”

“My old man’s dad,” Bender clarified, lightly gripping the microphone. “Not at all like him. Um, in fact, Ol’ Jake over there seemed to be a lone wolf. My uncle’s not an asshole. Grandma Nancy wasn’t an asshole. Grandpop Kirk wasn’t an asshole. From all I’ve heard, my ma’s parents aren’t assholes, either. Jake was the holdout. The Chosen One, I guess. Someone shined a light when he was born and decided that he would be the ultimate piece of shit. Sorry, Judge. I know this is being broadcast and all.”

Up on the judge’s stand, Judge Stevens chuckled. “That’s all right, son. I’m sure the studio can bleep it all out. Please, proceed.” 

Bender grinned. The guy was sleeping on a fucking cloud now that he had married into a family that all but owned Chicago. He could get away with murder. Probably literally. Andy rolled his eyes. ‘Rich people.’ 

“Grandpop Kirk was the only one in the ol’ Bender family who gave a crap for years,” Bender continued, growing serious again. Or as serious as the burnout was capable in any event. “Used to sneak over to his place—same house my old man and my uncle grew up in—to get food, real food, because we often only had junk in the fridge. Beer. Slim Jims. Maybe a hotdog or two. Usually frozen to inedibility. And of course my ma’s vodka.”

In the front row, Laura Bender smiled ruefully at her son and glanced down at her lap. 

His shoulders bobbed beneath the plain black crewneck he wore. ‘Probably the last “trial-appropriate” thing he had in his closet.’ “So’s I’d go to my grandfather’s. I was his only grandkid. That he knew of, anyway. Spoiled me rotten, to the best of his ability. At least, to me, it appeared to be spoiling me rotten. I, uh, anything would’ve seemed like ‘spoiling’ in comparison to the reality I lived in daily—“ 

Mr. McCallister shoved both hands inside his tweed trouser pockets. “Can you explain that reality? Before your grandfather passed?”

Bender sighed and nodded. “Usually woke at dawn’s asscrack with my old man pounding on my door. Telling me to ‘Get the hell up, you little shit.’ I’d do all the getting ready crap myself, no matter how young I was. I don’t remember a time anyone ever helped me, like, get dressed or brush my teeth, though I’m sure *someone* did at some point. But I have no memories of it, and those go back as far as…about my fourth birthday. That’s, um, when I began cuttin’ my own hair. Started to like it. Didn’t trust anyone else to do it. You know, ‘til Claire.” 

Claire beamed, doubtlessly proud of herself that she’d won that distinction. Again, Andy rolled his eyes. 

Laura, however, frowned. This piece of information, evidently, she hadn’t been aware of, miniscule as it may have seemed. 

“Took my own showers every morning,” he went on. “Washed up. Made good use of the toilet. You know. I had a sort of…routine. I was kind of an adult way before I was an adult. What most people my age are starting to figure out *now* I already had down pat when I was six. Knew what time a’ day our shitty plumbing was at its best so’s I could take a hot shower. Where the better dentist office was and how to take advantage of my old man’s crap health insurance for that stuff. It was hell when I needed braces, let me tell you. I got quite the shakedown from Jakey over there. ‘How much is this gonna cost me, metal mouth?!’ ‘Nothin’, it’s covered by your insurance.’ Hoping he’d have a frigging job long enough to keep it. Which of course he didn’t, and my grandpop had to step up and pay for ‘em out of pocket.” 

Ms. Bender straightened, eyes broadening in her face. She definitely hadn’t known that. 

Man. There was probably a lot of stuff going on under her nose back then she hadn’t been privy to, particularly concerning her kid. 

Claire gazed behind her, trading glances with her father. She looked heartbroken. 

‘Obviously. Braces are fucking expensive.’ Andy would know. All five of the Clark boys had had hardware installed on their teeth for a few years there, and the Clarks weren’t exactly rolling in it. Nor had the best health insurance. 

“Only at my grandpop’s could I be a kid, really,” Bender went on, getting a look on his face Andy could only classify as that infamous Back There façade Claire was always going on about to Allison. “I could let my hair down, so to speak. It’s always down. My hair’s not *that* long.” Cue soft laughter amid the galley. “He fed me. We watched movies and stuff. He took me to concerts. He took me to my *first* concert. Some, uh, big band reunion in Chicago when I was ten. He had this old Victrola he liked to play these vintage tunes on. And I got to introduce him to my stuff. You know, video games and wrestling and Led Zeppelin and Peggy Sue’s. Uh, this diner in Shermer. We used to all go out. Me, him, Ty, and his grandpa. We’d go fishin’. It was nice.

Then, he died. I was fourteen. And things got exorbitantly worse.”

Mr. McCallister pushed aside the corners of his tweed jacket. “How so, John?”

Bender braced both elbows on the podium and buried his hands in his hair. “Shit. How didn’t it? Grandpop Kirk’s death must’ve…triggered something in the old man, I don’t know. Suddenly, he was lashing out more physically than ever. Before, it was more snide comments with a side of ass-whuppin’. The older I got, the worse he grew. Then, my grandfather died. And he just…snapped. Started comin’ home at all hours of the night. He’d literally drag me out of bed, throw me down the stairs, push me up against a wall. Got a lovely scar on my knee curtesy of a rusty nail sticking up from one of those stairs. Um, there was that time, as Ty said, when I damn near cracked my head open on the cement after he pushed me. He’d cut me with that frigging Swiss army knife. Or with a piece of broken glass a few times. Gotta nice scar on my arm from one of those encounters, too.” He rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, pointing out the faded scar on his bicep. Andy squinted, incredulous that he hadn’t noticed it before. “Cut me from collarbone to the inside of my elbow. For breaking a GD glass.

“Uh, he’d also take shit out on my ma. I’d try to intervene, you know, and things would turn. Like she said, I’d come home from school to find him wailin’ on ‘er, and I’d jump in. It, um, had the desired effect in that he’d start wailin’ on *me* instead. But he still put her in the hospital and she once went into labor early.” Twisting his neck, he glared in his bastard father’s and the snake lawyer’s direction. “And I can promise it wasn’t due to eclampsia or whatever, geniuses. It was because that jackass pushed her down the fucking staircase.”

In front of him, Laura Bender nodded her head, a proud slant to her mouth. For once, Andy agreed with her. 

“I know leaving that creep took A LOT,” Bender continued with a deep exhale. “He’s all she knew, pretty much. It’s like leaving your whole life since you were a kid behind. I’m, uh, proud of her.”

Ms. Bender’s hand rose to wipe away a tear slinking from one eye. Claire smiled softly at her husband. 

At the end of the row, Jackie took off her glasses and cleaned them with the end of her sweater.

The prosecutor glanced down at the cracked leather shielding Bender’s hands. His gloves, which Andy knew were his version of a security blanket. “May I ask about the gloves, John?”

Bender also stared down at his hands, as though surprised at their continued existence. “Fashion statement?”

Mr. McCallister smiled patiently. “At twenty-three?” 

The burnout chuckled, a tad uncomfortable. “Yeah, you’re right. Things are nearly ten years old.” And, haltingly, he undid the straps, slid the worn, damaged leather off his limbs, and slowly flashed the jury, and then the galley, his scarred palms. 

A gasp aroused. Andy winced. He’d seen the lacerations before, the criss-crossed menagerie of stretched pink scars, of course he had. But it never got easier—either seeing them himself or imagining a teenaged Bender having to endure receiving them. His own father shoving his unprotected hands on top of a gas-lit oven-top for ten whole seconds as it nearly burned his palms to twin crisps. All because the man was pissed he had gotten laid off that day. A situation that had nothing to do with his son whatsoever. 

Mr. McCallister, too, made a show of recoiling. In fact, he submitted Bender’s hands as Exhibit C. Uh, while they were still attached to him, obviously. “I submit John’s lacerations here as Exhibit C, further evidence that Jacob Bender’s breed of ‘insanity’ is in no way temporary—“ 

“Objection!” Drake jumped up from his chair, nearly sending the wooden apparatus clattering to the floor. 

The prosecutor threw his arms up toward his head in aggravation. It was an emotion Andy mirrored. 

“What now, Councilor Drake?” Judge Stevens intoned, leaning back in his chair. 

“Relevance, Your Honor? How do we know those…’lacerations’ are at all connected to my client? Mr. Bender could’ve gotten them climbing a tree. Or, say, being thrown out of a bar for getting too wild.” 

Bender scoffed. “Like they’d dare,” he muttered under his breath, and Andy smirked. Louder, he added, “When I was fifteen, my old man placed my palms flat on top of the oven burner…while they were *on*. For ten seconds. Got second degree burns, and the scars remain to this day. Now, I don’t like goin’ out in public without my gloves, no matter the weather. Same with tank tops and stuff. Don’t wear ‘em. Shorts, neither. Took Claire a helluva long time to convince me I didn’t need to wear the gloves around her, or a fuckin’ sweatshirt in July. Hell, when I proposed…we were takin’ a vacation on Lake Michigan, and I almost wore a damn wetsuit instead of swimming trunks, if you can believe it.”

Claire twisted the ring around her finger. The melancholy look in her eyes corroborated that story.

Compressing his thin mouth angrily, Drake lowered himself back to his seat. 

The prosecutor slid his hands out from his pockets and gently placed them flat on either side of the microphone. “Ms. Bender—uh, your mother—alleged that you’d escape to your friend, Tyson Carter’s, or to my client’s when things were particularly rough at home.”

Bender nodded in lingering accord. “Yeah. Um, at first, for years, I’d go to Ty’s. ‘Cause his house, it was right behind mine. I just had to scale the fence. His folks always had the pull-out couch for me. But, um, we didn’t live in the best neighborhood, you know? I mean.” John gestured vaguely with one hand, toward the back of the room, where Big Bill sat near Lou Bender. “My house was unquestionably the rotten tooth on the block. It wasn’t the *worst* area in Shermer, but it certainly was no Richieville, either, know what I mean? All the homes were row houses. The rooms were stacked one in back of the other. They were all the same. Den. Small ass living room and kitchen. Maybe a really skinny front foyer if you’re lucky. Couple-a bedrooms upstairs. A low-ceilinged attic. Attached garage. That was where my old man kept all his shit. The attic and the garage. Man, I spilled some paint in there once, right after Grandpop Kirk died. He put a cigar out on my inner forearm. Still got the scar. Looks like he gave it to me yesterday.” Rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, Bender showed off the nearly decade-old scar, and Andy unconsciously cringed again, physically looking away, toward the floor. He remembered the first time he’d seen it, back in that Saturday detention when he’d stupidly called the guy’s bluff over his story of abuse in the home. Andy’s disbelief had angered Bender so much that, in true Bender fashion, he’d knocked some shit to the floor and refused to associate with the lot of them for a good hour or so until he calmed down. 

Looking back, Andy couldn’t believe the erroneously christened “Criminal” hadn’t socked him a new one for calling bullshit. He, uh, probably wouldn’t have gotten far in that endeavor, but he surely would’ve tried. And heck, he’d been angry enough to have landed a good punch or two, that was for sure. 

Andy couldn’t find fault. And, knowing the dude as he did now, for nearly seven years, knowing Jake Bender, even Laura Bender, the Sport kinda hated himself, too. 

As though reading his mind, or seeing his inner turmoil reflected in his face, his wife beside him squeezed his fingers in support, lips flickering in a comforting smile. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. 

Mr. McCallister submitted *that* scar as Exhibit D. And had John show his arm to the assembled jury. “What kind of monster,” the prosecutor began, addressing the twelve members, and then the galley itself. Both sides. “Puts a *cigar* out on his own child? Any child, but especially one of his own blood?” 

Jake, that shit, twittered in his seat like he was itching for a cigar right now. That was all that mattered in the moment. 

‘Prick.’ 

“Anyway,” Bender continued once he sat down again. “I, er, always felt bad, you know? About stayin’ there. They didn’t have much more than we did.” Somewhere to his right, Ty sucked on his teeth, wearing an accustomed expression. This was an argument he’d had with his friend many times in the past. “They didn’t have a lot of room, you know? All the houses in the area were built the same. Two bedrooms. Master bedroom was for the Carters. The other Ty shared with his sister, Joy. Then there was me. Comin’ over. Eatin’ their food. Takin’ their clothes. I, uh, felt bad. So, sometimes, I’d go to, like, the bus station instead. I knew the manager there. He’d give me a bench and a blanket and let me crash. Um, this was all after Grandpop Kirk died, a’ course. Before that, I’d just go to his place.” 

Ty and his father exchanged glances and slowly shook their heads. Andy couldn’t imagine having to sleep in a cold bus depot. 

In the row in front of him, Laura Bender made a sound of distress. She and Claire were clutching each other’s hands tightly across the divide. 

John cleared his throat again. “Um, then I met Claire. Last semester of junior year. High school. Like I’d go to college, please.”

Chuckles arose among the galley and the jury. Even Jake had to laugh. This, obviously, did nothing to endear him to Andy.

“Now, *she* had the room.” Bender ran a hand through his hair, snickering. “And then some. She never turned me away. Didn’t matter if I showed up at some God-forsaken hour of the night. Or morning. Bleeding all over her expensive cashmere carpets. She, uh, cleaned me up, took care of me. Never complained. Very un-Claire, in those days.” 

The Princess of their group shot him a half-amused, half-endeared glare. 

Mr. McCallister encouraged him to go on. “Are there any specific instances that you can recall, John?”

Bender nodded. “Boy, can I. Um, when I got this—“ He pointed to the long scar on his left bicep, the one Jake drew using a piece of glass, apparently. “—I stumbled to her place—the Standish estate—in a haze. ‘Cause I was losing a lot of blood, you know. She had a trellis outside her window, and I had a helluva time climbing it that night. When I managed it, I landed on her balcony at, I don’t know, it had to be 1 A.M. I knocked on the door, and she was already awake ‘cause I had her keeping weird hours. My fault.” At the prosecution desk, Claire smiled and shrugged. She didn’t care. “She ran to let me in, and I was dripping blood everywhere. Had me sit on her bed and, uh, got the first aid kit out of her bathroom. She had one in her bedroom. Her bedroom was huge, about the size of my whole frigging house. I, uh, didn’t wanna go to the hospital. I was conditioned to avoid hospitals at all costs. The doctors there, they asked all these probing questions. ‘What happened, exactly?’ ‘Who did this to you?’ ‘Do you feel safe at home?’ I also knew that if I gave my old man up, I’d be taken away ‘cause I was still a minor at the time…and then I’d never see my friends again. I’d never see *Claire* again. So when she suggested we go to Shermer General, I begged her, and, um, she managed to ‘stitch me up’ using butterfly bandages. They keep the wound closed without having to use stitches.

Then, she cleaned up the—the blood. Said she’d just tell Greta—uh, the Standishes’ housekeeper—that she got her period, and it was like, a *really bad* month—and…we just…went to sleep.”

“You better have gone to sleep,” Nora Standish muttered, but even *she* looked pale beneath the tan pancake makeup she wore. 

Yeah, obviously, Claire’s mother hadn’t known at all how bad her son-in-law’s home situation was as a kid. 

Bender grinned. Andy knew he’d meant *that* specific time they’d gone to sleep. As one, he, Allison, Brian, and Jackie grimaced. Ty and Megan cackled. 

Claire flushed scarlet in her chair.

Mr. McCallister asked if there was anything else. Bender hesitated, flicked his gaze between Claire, Richard Standish, and Nora Standish, sighed, then added, “Uh, yeah. A pretty big one. Happened toward the end of our senior year.”

“Please explain.” 

John inched forward in his seat. Claire pressed her lips together. She knew where this was going. 

Andy leaned forward, curious. 

“Er, it started just like…that other time. Sort of. I had missed school that morning. I think it was in April of ’85. I cut school sometimes, which wasn’t abnormal or anything but since I started seeing Claire I, uh, usually told her beforehand.” 

Andy remembered that! The five of them—plus Stubbie and Bender’s and Claire’s friends—had gathered, as usual, out on the steps in front of the school. He recalled that Allison had looked *really* hot that morning in her blood red sweater and fake leather pants. Claire, atypically, had arrived last, and in her father’s BMW; she usually rode to school on Bender’s beaten-up, old Harley in those days. When she approached them, she looked worried. And when she drew closer, her uncertain appearance increased tenfold. Biting her lower lip, a nervous habit, she told them that Bender hadn’t picked her up that morning and hadn’t called to tell her that he was skipping that day, as he habitually did. She was vexed. 

They all fretted, especially when he failed to show up at lunch, either. Or gym. By sixth period, Claire was about to flake out on the last two periods and head directly to his house, his warnings be damned, to find him. Ty called his parents from a payphone, but they hadn’t seen him, either. The Princess was now frantic. 

After school let out, Ty and Megan convinced her that the last thing Bender would want was for her to go to his place so she waited anxiously at her house. And waited and waited some more. Meanwhile, Andy stayed over at Allison’s palatial Baron Drive homestead with Brian, and Megan lingered with Ty and Stubbie at the enormous Marshall mansion while the family was in Europe. Again. Sloane, Ferris, and Frye sat anxiously by the phone at the Bueller estate. 

By midnight of that evening, Bender finally did show up at Claire’s place, awkwardly clambering up the trellis, while she was on the phone with Ally, he and Brian listening closely. As Claire later told it, John had missed school that morning because he and his old man got into it when Bender caught him the previous night, coming home from Claire’s, with another woman. Foolishly, that morning, he confronted him about it, and Jake beat the shit out of him. Bender, not being much of a fighter, took the heat while his mother screamed and screamed in the background. Then wandered around town for hours with half a swollen face and cuts all over his back curtesy of that damn razor blade. What was more, at about ten that night, it started to rain, and the guy was walking around Shermer in just a cotton overshirt, a tank top, and jeans while precipitation spilled down from the heavens. He wasn’t even wearing his boots, just Chuck Taylors that were soaked through within minutes. He was chilled to the bone by the time he reached Richieville. 

Richard Standish appeared as if he was privy to all of this information. But he still looked sick upon hearing it repeated. Nora, however, seemed aghast. 

As did the jury. 

Bender was still explaining that night’s events. “I was fricking freezing. And wet. Claire immediately ran into Josh’s old room and got some of his clothes that were still there. You know, some sweat pants. An old frat sweatshirt. I looked like a real preppie.” 

Josh, also in the front row, puffed out his chest proudly. “I am a Sigma Chi man through and through.” 

Bender laughed. “Fucking preppie. In any event, um, she cleaned me up. Smeared some of this antibacterial gunk on my face. Took down the swelling. But I had a fever. Until then, I hadn’t been sick since I got mono when I was eight. She wanted to take me to the doctor. Said she’d pay for it and all. But I said no. ‘Cause I’m a stubborn ass.” Andy could agree with that. “We went to sleep. Fever didn’t subside. Just got worse. I started to cough. My chest began rattling. Claire got really worried. But I, uh, was really reluctant to go to the hospital. Technically, I was still a minor; my birthday’s in September. An’ I didn’t have any relatives or whatever in the area. But Claire was determined and when Claire is determined, there is no stopping her.”

Andy could agree with *that*, too. 

At the prosecution table, it was Claire’s turn to puff out her chest and look proud. ‘Must be a Standish thing.’ 

“While I was still sleeping—fitfully—she told her dad,” he went on, shooting his wife a playfully annoyed glare. She shrugged her shoulders, not at all diffident. Laura Bender smiled. “Uh, Richard Standish. I would-a thought he’d have exploded, some kid in his daughter’s bed and all. But…he didn’t. He, um, got my ass up and drove me to Shermer General. He donates there, you know. What am I saying, of course you know.”

The galley laughed. Nora stared at her husband as though seeing him for the first time. 

“They kept me there for a few days,” Bender said, clenching his jaw. “I don’t really like to talk about it. Or—or acknowledge it, to myself, even. I hate hospitals. But, um, I was in and out. They hooked me up with all these…fluids. Said I had pneumonia. They caught it early, but…” Up and down went his shoulders. Andy recalled this, too. Though neither Bender nor Claire had talked about the experience much. Whenever one of them asked, both of them—as well as Ty and Megan—would clam up pretty damn quickly. So, they had all dropped it, for the most part. Now, it was coming out, all these years later. “After three days, they said I could be released. But…only if I had a ‘safe place’ to go home to. I obviously did not. Claire didn’t have to ask. Rich volunteered to take me back to the Standish estate. Nora had no idea, I don’t think.”

Judging by the look on her face, no, she had not. 

John carried on. “He didn’t take me back to Claire’s room. Said there was too much chance I’d run into Nora or the housekeeper. So…he basically hid me in the pool house; it’s behind the main house. It’s, like, a townhouse or a ranch a few yards beyond the main house, behind the pool. Room enough for a few people to live comfortably. Certainly for little, ol’ me. It was fully furnished. I had an RN come by weekly to check up on me and change my dressing and stuff, but Claire was there all the time takin’ care of me. She learned how to give me the shots I needed. You know I had one a’ those PIC lines put in. Like an intravenous IV. It can receive fluids without all the needles and crap, which is good ‘cause I hate needles.” 

Andy had to laugh, as did Allison beside him. They knew the so-called badass rebel loathed needles of any kind, despite the fact that he wielded a super sharp switchblade. ‘Pussy.’ 

“She barely left,” he continued, still marveling even now. “I, um, grew kinda concerned. That the old man would somehow figure out where I was. ‘Cause I had to remain there…pretty much ‘til we graduated. It took a *long* time to recover from that crap. And the Standishes weren’t exactly ‘under the radar’, know what I mean? Claire talked to her dad. He had a kennel with all these attack dogs. Like, pit bulls and Rotties and Malinois. Literally like Mr. Burns. ‘Release the hounds!’” 

Again, the galley chuckled. Allison the loudest of all. She wanted her own attack dog. Andy would’ve preferred a golden Retriever, like the one he’d had growing up. 

Josh nudged his father with his elbow. Richard’s shoulders bobbed beneath his sweater. 

“He loaned me his newest one,” John admitted, a mite sheepishly. “Dude had, like, five dogs in house and ten in the kennels. Plus three guns in a safe. He was NOT playing around when it came to safety. Claire came by the next day with this American Bull Terrier named Jocko. Sweet as pie to his humans. Could rip to shreds any intruders. I, er, kept a bag of Milkbones around so he wouldn’t accidentally eat me.”

Mr. McCallister chuckled. “Did Jacob Bender ever show up?”

Bender shook his head. “No, thank God. He was too stupid--*allegedly*,” he pointedly added before Drake could declare an objection, which was halfway out of his mouth. “He hadn’t even made the connection between Claire and Richard Standish when I went to see him in jail after the ‘accident’. He’s dense as Stilton cheese. Again, *allegedly*, don’t get your panties in a wad, Drake.

My ma showed up, though.”

Laura Bender sat up straighter. The entire second row leaned forward to hear more. 

“Your mother?”

John nodded. “I was worried ‘bout her. I told Claire. But before she could go gallivanting off to the ol’ Bender house, I *begged* her not to. Told her that I know she’s stubborn as hell, and when people tell her not to do something that makes her want to do it more; I know because I’m the exact same way.” Claire’s head bobbed in agreement. As did Laura’s, with a roll of the eyes. “But I pleaded with her to listen to me. She suggested I ask Ty instead. So…that’s what I did. Ty and Megan—uh, his girlfriend—came to visit the next day…with my ma. She was goin’ through one of her sober periods, but I knew it wouldn’t last. She told me to get out. Stay there, at the Standishes’, and get outta Shermer as soon as I graduate. Go to Chicago with Claire. And, uh, don’t worry about her. I tried to get my ma to leave ‘im, but she insisted she couldn’t and she’d be fine. She begged me. All those years…I stayed…because I wanted to protect my ma. Against *him*” The glower Bender sent his father could melt steel, Andy was sure. “Leaving her behind…it was one of the hardest damn things I ever had to do. But I knew I had to. Do it, that is. Because the man had it out for me. *Me* specifically. Ma could see that; she told me so herself that day. So, after we graduated—somehow—I got a crappy apartment on the West Side and left.” 

Mr. McCallister nodded solemnly, hands templed in front of his face. “And that decision, do you think, was the best one for you?”

“Unequivocally,” John replied with nary a beat, meeting his wife’s eyes. She smiled softly at him. “Shermer was holding me back. *He* was holding me back. I have my own family now. My own *life*. It ain’t perfect, but, shit, what is? I don’t *want* perfect; perfect’s not real. What I want…is to wake up every morning with someone who I know has my back no matter what. I want the beautiful kid we made. I want the job I work my ass off for. Fuck, I even want the stupid dog that looks depressed even when he’s happy as a clam. And it doesn’t take much to make him happy as a clam. Scratch behind those long ass ears. Belly rub. Piece of meat. He’s a dog.” 

The Princess’ giggles were the most raucous amongst the chortles amid the galley this time. 

“And I have that,” he finished, leaning back in his chair with a small smile. “So I’m doin’ pretty good.”

Without thinking, Andy wrapped one arm around his wife’s shoulders. 

Mr. McCallister smiled. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

It was Drake’s turn to cross-examine. But when he spoke, his next words shocked the spectators. And the prosecution. “Your Honor, my client wishes to question this particular witness himself.”

Bender’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.  
**

“Order, order! Order, I say! Order in the court!”

To punctuate his command, Judge Stevens slammed his gavel against the judge’s podium three times, cutting the cacophony that had arisen amid the audience—as well as the jury—at Drake’s pronouncement. Namely, that his client, Jake Bender himself, wanted to do the cross-examination for this witness.

This witness being his own son.

Claire was shocked, but she shouldn’t have been. Of course the man wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to mentally and emotionally torture his progeny one more time, if he couldn’t physically. 

Swallowing harshly, audibly, outraged on her husband’s behalf, Claire jumped up from her seat and stared between her father and the judge. “This is outrageous! This can’t happen, right? He’s, he’s not even a law student! He’s just some schmuck!” 

In the second row, Allison smirked around her knuckles at her use of “schmuck”. 

Judge Stevens cleared his throat. “According to the laws of Cook County, any defendant *can* represent him or herself at any time if both parties agree.”

Claire glowered. While the idea of Jake Bender, a man who, as far as she knew, had zero legal experience, making a fool of himself leading the floor, she absolutely did not want to put her husband through his father’s mental gymnastics. Not again, not ever, if she could prevent it. 

Mr. McCallister, however, looked delighted, if cautiously so. Having an ill prepared dumbass opposite him in his biggest case of the year had to be a boon for him, Claire knew, though he certainly didn’t want to put John through any unnecessary hell. 

And this, in Claire’s eyes, was unnecessary. 

‘Drake is bad enough.’

Having expected John to pale beneath his beige complexion and break out in a cold sweat as he had done the last time he’d approached the prospect of facing his father again—right after he’d put Claire in the hospital—the Princess was surprised to find his stature nonchalant, his arms folded over his crewneck, that same familiar half-grin about his lips. Claire slowly sank to her seat. As did Laura before her, who’d been shouting bloody murder for the past five minutes. 

Mayhap, glimpsing him so often for months had…not *softened* but *acclimated* John somewhat to his presence? Possibly?

Judge Stevens banged his gavel once more. “Order! I call order in this courtroom! May I please see both councilors at my bench? Mr. Bender and…Mr. Bender, you two, as well.”

Claire’s blood froze in her veins whilst Jake, still chained—thankfully—followed his opportunist pig of a lawyer up to the judge’s podium, shuffling noisily behind him. Claire herself remained seated while Mr. McCallister and John did so as well, her husband’s gate unhurried. 

Though she didn’t take part of the little powwow, she could clearly discern the tête-à-tête from her vantage point. “Your Honor.” Mr. McCallister was gleeful, all but rubbing his hands together Mr. Burns-style. “If John’s okay with it, I have *zero* problems with this.”

Judge Stevens stared down his nose at her husband. “Well, young man? *Are* you okay with it?”

John shrugged. “It’s cool with me. You know, if Dad wants to make an ass of himself, more power to ‘im.” 

Drake crossed his arms over his expensive blue suit. “He may surprise you, kid.”

“Ha! I doubt it.”

Thus, John trotted back to the bench, Drake back to the defensive side, McCallister back to the seat beside hers in the prosecution’s desk, and a bailiff uncuffed Jake Bender’s ankles so that he could more “move freely” during the interrogation. Claire thought back to Ted Bundy’s televised trial, how at ease he’d been representing himself, how free of movement…and how easily he’d flown the coop. Shuddering, she poured herself a glass of water and took a sip. 

“Ahem.” Jake Bender cleared his throat, the only sound amongst the stonily silent courtroom. Her husband leaned back in his seat, hands pillowed behind his head. He looked as dispassionate as he had on that long-ago day in detention, that morning when he just sat there with his booted feet up as Vice Principal Vernon was laying into him for whatever reason. It was the first time Claire had been truly intrigued by the so-called Criminal’s presence. “Looks like we’re back to Square One, eh, kid? You n’ me. Eye to eye, yet again.”

Scoffing, John took his hands down and leaned forward in his seat. “Not exactly Square One, old man. You’re in an orange jumpsuit. Your hands are cuffed. You’ve got no power here. Zero. Zippo. Nada. Nix.” 

Jake, that shit, gazed behind him directly at Laura, who shifted in her bench. “I don’t know ‘bout that…”

Her husband didn’t miss a beat. Jeering, he said, “Oh, please. She’s divorcing your ass. Stop trying. Move on. You’re in frigging denial.” 

Head curling back around, Jake placed a chained hand on his hip. “’Denial’, huh?”

“You heard me.”

When the shithead grinned, those broken teeth flashing through the hangdog skin, Claire involuntarily quivered and burrowed further into her cardigan. The gleam in his eye glinted dangerously. “Funny how you put it like that, *son*. ‘Cause…I’d allege it’s *you* who’s in denial.”

John barked a laugh and pointed to himself. He was not wearing the gloves anymore. “*Me*? Methinks you’re getting hold of some good shit in there and the pigs need to pay more attention.”

At the back of the courtroom, two beige uniformed policemen tittered in discomfort. The bailiff whom John had mooned in the past scowled. 

When Jake chuckled, the sound did not contain any of his son’s warmth and gaiety. Indeed, it was a dark, perilous reverberation that echoed in Claire’s mind and would for weeks to come, she was certain. “I was tough on ya,” the man said, uncaringly swinging one of the chains hanging from his wrists around and around. ‘Like Jacob Marley.’ “So what? It made ya hard. Got ya prepared for life. I wasn’t gonna coddle ya, is that what ya wanted? Oh, yer in denial, all right, kid. Denial that I didn’t-a accurately prepare you for how life chews guys like us up and spits us out. An’ it’s only a matter-uh time ‘afore that one—“ Here, he tucked a finger over at Claire. “—realizes it.”

The Princess gasped in outright offense. As if she would *ever*!

John’s answering chuckle was without humor and ominous. “So, let me get this straight. You were really doing me a *favor* by running down my wife?”

Jake shrugged his shoulders in response. “I suppose you can look at it that way if ya want, kid. ‘Cause…there ain’t no way, once that little lady wakes up, she’s gonna wanna stay wit’ the likes of *you*. The likes of *us*. Babe or no babe. That there is Richard Standish’s daughter. She can find herself another man. You…are just gonna have-ta settle for bein’ someone else’s second choice—“ 

“Objection!” 

Mr. McCallister, red and seething, rose from the prosecution table before Claire herself could, her hands trembling with ire. She felt like she was going to throw up. 

John continued to wear the lazy, nonchalant smile on his lips, but she could tell his father was getting to him. There were lines of tension building around his eyes and in his forehead. His fists had tightened around the stout microphone stand. A vein was pulsating in his temple. She had to stop this. Now. 

The prosecutor leaned down as she whispered something in his ear, nodded, and barked to the judge, “Your Honor, Jacob *Bender* is leading the witness. He’s *badgering* the witness. Does he have anything of substance to add to his defense or is he just going to mentally play with his son?” 

Mr. McCallister sat down. Claire nodded, satisfied. 

Judge Stevens agreed. “Sustained. Mr. Bender, stop rattling the witness or I’ll have you sit back down. This is to be your sole warning.” 

Jake Bender, that piece of human garbage, compressed his lips but nodded and sighed. “Fine, fine. All I mean is…couldn’t any of this stuff just be…exaggerations in your head, kid? You always had an overactive imagination.”

John blinked his eyes heavenward. “I had a big imagination to escape that shitty homelife. I needed one. Pretending climbing that shed out back—you know, the one you never let me inside—was scaling Mt. Everest or the tree in the front yard that never grew leaves was a fucking dragon was easier than dealing with reality.”

Claire allowed a small smile to cross her face, imagining a small John Bender fighting off an imaginary fire-breathing beast born of a naked tree with a “sword” made out of tin foil. Maybe rescuing the damsel in distress. This would’ve been the 70s so that damsel would have likely been something out of “Monty Python”. Or possibly Maid Marian. 

Jake tut-tutted, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “I was so excited when you were born, Johnny. My boy. Only one I got. And this is how ya treat me.”

John’s ensuing laugh—as well as Laura’s, and Claire’s—was incredulous. “How *I* treat *you*?!”

Jake Bender went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “Didn’t I give you everythin’? Roof over yer head? Food ta eat? Clothes ta keep you warm? Sent ya to school? Took ya huntin’ and fishin’. ‘Member that? Had us a cabin up on Lake Loomis in the woods? Caught a whole bunch a’ catfish, that we did. Ate damn good that week.” 

John pursed his lips. “Yeah, I remember. I remember we went…when I was seven, then again when I was eight and nine. Next year, I wanted to take Ty with us but you said, and I quote, ‘I ain’t goin’ anywhere with that little—‘ I’ll stop there. I didn’t exactly wanna go with you after that.” 

A few rows behind her, a muscle in Ty’s jaw worked. He absolutely recalled that moment in question.

Megan, too, had gone pale, her normally sandy complexion blanching a sickly greenish-white. Claire understood the stormy look in her eyes; it was likely reflected right back in her own.

If anything, Jake just chuckled. “Aw, I was just joshin’. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. We all can go now! All ya gotta do is drop these charges!”

Claire’s husband let loose a stream of disbelieving laughter. “Are you kidding? You almost *killed* my *wife*, you psychopath! And besides, *I* can’t drop any charges, only *Claire* can, not that she *will*. So you’re crazy *and* stupid. Jesus. I hope I didn’t pass any of your DNA onto Dani.” 

That had Claire guffawing. And a bit worried. 

Glowering, Jake slammed both palms on either side of the bench and leaned toward his offspring, eyes narrowed beneath bushy, dark eyebrows. “You listen to me, kid. I’m gonna finish what I started. Somehow, I’m gonna finish it. You mark my damn words; you took what’s mine, I’m takin’ what’s yours.”

Behind her, Claire’s mother gasped and gripped the arm of her father’s sport coat. Daddy’s face was about as red as his hair. He half rose to a standing position as the man, Claire’s father-in-law, threatened her life. And her baby’s life. Again. 

Pushing himself forward, John was only a few inches from being nose to nose with his own father. The glint in his eyes was fiery enough to activate all the volcanoes in the States. “You’re gonna spend the rest of your days behind bars. And I’m gonna have a fucking rave the day they pronounce sentencing.” 

Glaring at his son for a few more seconds, Jake Bender then slunked back to his seat beside Drake, and sat diligently still while a policeman recuffed his ankles. But didn’t take his gaze off his progeny.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I've literally never had one of those photo-happy Thanksgivings where there's turkey with all the trimmings, everyone's gathered around a huge ass table, and from person to person declares what they're most thankful for. Everyone sort of...lines up and plops food on top of plastic plates, then scurries onto whatever available seating surface will accommodate them. I disappear up to my own childhood bedroom, since we always have it at my parents'. I get a MOUNTAIN of sweet potatoes. I know some people think it's too sweet but my American ass loves that shit. I hoard that shit. I'm like Golem with that shit. "My precious."
> 
> Note 2: Growing up, I had a basset hound (a red one, not a tricolored; so, like, the Molly Ringwald of bassets) and took part in a statewide basset hound owners group lol that tidbit about their garbage guts is--hilariously--accurate. Charlie, my dog, would get into all kinds of shit. From Oreos to my sugar free gum to garlic..the list went on and on. After a while everyone stopped bothering taking him to the vet because it never made him sick, just...bloated. Damn, he chomped on my crayons. All it did was make his poop speckled with neon; handy, cleaning it up at night! I used to come home from school to find empty boxes of cookies on the floor beside one guilty-looking basset hound. I tried locking the pantry, he'd find a way in somehow. He'd use the dining room chairs to hop up on the table. He could've been in the CIA. They are great family dogs, but they are lazy as hell and stubborn to a fault. If you're taking one out for a walk and he decides he's done, he will plop down right there in the middle of the street, there are videos of just that on YouTube. Unless you have food, he ain't movin'. So...go prepared, is all I'm sayin'. Learned that the hard way xD
> 
> Note 3: I probably messed up on a bit of the continuity in the Home Alone plot but oh well, still funny.
> 
> Note 4: According to Cary Elwes' memoir about the filming of "The Princess Bride", when he broke his toe on an ATV while dressed as Westley, one of the docs in the hospital he was rushed to referred to him as Zorro. Captain Monasterio was one of Zorro's adversaries in the comic series.
> 
> Note 5: "Cool Jerk" by The Capitols, if you'll remember, was famously playing in Home Alone 2 while Uncle Frank was singing in the shower before the fam left Chicago. And Kevin later used it to fool the concierge that his non-existent daddy had spotted him peeping on him in the shower at the Plaza. Daddy was really just a clown pool toy.
> 
> Note 6: So, John had PRETTY good teeth in the movie when he smiled and...come on. When we were kids, most of us had cheese grater mouths. And if he had really neglectful parents, it's likely he'd still have had a cheese grater mouth. In reality, definitely the product of the actual actor and his ultra supportive parents, according to an 80s pop culture course I took once (yeah apparently that's a thing; I had an entire exam on Molly Ringwald). And if you're in America, you dang well need health insurance to get braces. So...I tried to explain that away. He'd either need to be really savvy or really lucky lol
> 
> Note 7: There is a promotional shot for the movie of Emilio posing, in full Andy regalia (Shermer High letterman's jacket, on a football field) next to a golden retriever. I imagine that was supposed to be Andy's doggo at the time)
> 
> Note 8: "Schmuck" in Yiddish means "prick". As a Jew I grew up with my parents and grandparents constantly peppering their speech with spoken Yiddish, never questioned it...until my Christian and Muslim friends (which, granted, were all of them; I was The Jew in my hometown) asked me WTF does that mean? Oh, guess that's not an everyday thing.


	55. Chapter 54: You Can't Handle the Truth! Part Claire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, last chapter before the epilogue. Any lingering questions should be answered in the epilogue. Woo, this was a ride. After this, I intend to post a one-shot in Dani's POV to sort of bridge this and the prequel, and then the prequel. After that, who knows. It's pandemic time! Everything is whacky!

Chapter 54: You Can't Handle the Truth! Part Claire

Claire’s calling was the moment of truth.

Unconsciously, Allison’s black-tipped fingernails dug into her husband’s forearm, deeper and deeper until he emitted a quiet yelp and she winced and apologized beneath her breath. To her credit, the Princess rose and walked to the bench with all the grace and dignity allowed her station in life—back ramrod straight, nose tipped toward the heavens, posture cotillion-perfect. No hundred-pound dictionary would tumble off *that* head, that was for damn sure. Not like a pint-size Allison’s, way back when Lenore had still been trying to mold her youngest daughter in her own image. 

Claire, dressed prettily in a satiny tie-neck blouse, black knee-length skirt, and a pink (of course) cardigan, lay her palm flat atop a black leather bible. That same bailiff Bender had mooned once upon a time swore her in, and she climbed the short staircase in her flat black boots. 

She also had a pretty conspicuous rose-printed scarf tied around her neck. Ally was privy to the fact that Claire only wore one of those when she was sporting a hickey or six. Squeaking, she bit down on her knuckles to keep from guffawing out loud. 

Andy gazed at her, then back at Claire and the perceptible scarf, and grinned. 

Claire glared right at her. John, in the front row, just smirked. 

Mr. McCallister approached the bench, collecting the irate Princess’ attention, and asked her, for the record, to state her exact name and the reason behind her suit against Jacob Bender. Claire rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I am Claire Standish. Uh, Claire Bender now. Um, my parents are Richard and Nora Standish. On May 17th, Jacob Bender tried to kill me. He ran me over with his car while I was coming out of a sandwich shop outside of Millennium Park. He happens to be my husband’s father. But he did this…before we were married.” 

A muscle flexed in John’s jaw, and he folded his arms over his chest. 

“And what exactly were you doing on May the 17th, Claire? Can you describe your day for me, leading up to the disastrous events that led to your hospitalization?” 

Inhaling deeply, the sound amplified over the microphone’s loudspeaker, Claire raked her red hair back with her manicured nails. “Well. I woke up with Danielle at six thirty, as usual, for her morning feeding. Um, that’s our daughter, she was six months old at the time. Gave her a bath. Got her dressed. Fed her. John was at work. I was still on maternity leave—I’ve *been* on maternity leave. At around nine, I put the baby in the playpen and did some errands around the house. Cleaning and stuff. Then at 11:30, I changed into my workout gear and buckled Danielle into her carrier. Then, we got a cab to the Clarks’ apartment in Millennium Park. Allison was going to watch her that day while I had some…me-time. You know, I was gonna go to the yoga studio, maybe grab a bite to eat. I hadn’t really been out by myself since the baby was born.”

Mr. McCallister smiled gently down at his client. “And did you accomplish all you set out to do that day?”

Claire shrugged. “For the most part. I did the yoga class, got a smoothie at the café. When I left, I decided to pop inside the sandwich shop next door to get a sub to take home before I went to pick up Danielle. But when I came back out…” The Princess paused, took another steadying, quivering breath, and braced both hands flat atop the podium. 

John clenched his fists. As did Claire’s dad. 

Allison scooted closer to her husband on the bench. 

“Take your time, Claire,” the prosecutor said, his tone soothing. “Take all the time you need, it’s perfectly fine.”

At the defensive table, that asshole Drake scoffed. Andy, Bender, and Ty hovered in their seats, as though they were ready and willing to gang up on the creep at a moment’s notice. 

Claire gulped audibly, dryly. “I, um, bent down. To tie my shoe. Then, someone screamed.” She gestured widely near the back of the room, where the witness in question sat anxiously viewing the proceedings. “I—I glanced up just in time to see the grille of the car barreling toward me. And, um, I saw some trees from the park waving in the background. Then everything went black. Next thing I remember was waking up in the ICU.” 

Bender lifted one hand to rub the back of his neck. Josh, beside him, patted his shoulder twice. 

Mr. McCallister nodded his head. “And what was that like for you? Waking up?”

“Confusing,” Claire answered at once, gripping the microphone stand. “It was like…like coming out of a fog. Or—or a snowstorm. I had to *fight* my way out. It was a physical thing. It was like…something was trying to *keep* me down, you know? And when I finally managed to claw my way to the surface, or whatever, it *hurt*. So much. Like, everywhere. My legs. My back. My head. God, even my *face* hurt. I’ve never just *ached* so much, not even after Danielle was born, and she was over eleven pounds; believe me, I hurt like *hell* afterwards.”

The courtroom, galley and jury, broke up in guffaws. Mothers shared knowing looks. Allison snickered the loudest as Bender pillowed his head with his hands, a self-satisfied grin on his face. The dude made big babies and he knew it. 

‘The dude *is* a big baby.’ 

Sighing deeply, she continued once the laughter settled. “My leg was wrapped in this huge blue cast. It was apparently broken in three places. I had all these cuts all over my face. I had a concussion but no other brain abnormalities, thank God. I was hooked up to all these machines. Heart monitor. Pulse monitor. Transfusion. Couple of IVs. There was an EEG in the corner. At the time, though, I was just frantic about Danielle—“ 

The prosecutor gazed down at his notes, stapled together loosely at one corner. “Was she not still with Mrs. Clark?”

Claire nodded. “She was, but my mind was still foggy.”

Allison’s eyes briefly fluttered closed in recollection. How she’d been annoyed that day because Claire had been “late” picking up the baby, as she’d expected. How, when Andy had called, she’d assumed it, at first, to be Claire on the other end mumbling some bullshit excuse for her tardiness…and how horribly contrite Ally had felt when she realized what had really, indeed, happened. 

“Understandable,” Mr. McCallister said, closing his notes.

A small, affectionate smile crossed the Princess’ face, one that Allison rarely glimpsed within her. One that she knew was reserved for one person and one person only. “My husband brought me out of it—well, he was my fiancé then. We had just gotten engaged. And then...*that* happened.” 

John was glaring daggers at his father, who simply looked annoyed that he had not managed to “finish what he started”. 

Allison wanted to strangle him with one of those chains around his waist. 

Mr. McCallister was trotting back and forth in his expensive Italian loafers. “Let me try to get this right, Claire. What *should* have been an exciting and beautiful time in your life—recently engaged, a new mother, about to start a new career path—was abruptly cut short by *that* man—“ Turning on his heel, he pointed his folded-up notes directly at John’s bastard father, eyes tapered to slits. “—suddenly running you down in a company car outside of Millennium Park one nondescript day in the middle of May?” 

“Objection!” Drake sputtered and rose on shaking legs. “Leading the witness?”

McCallister’s jaw dropped nearly to the floor. “Your Honor, I was *not*!”

“You were putting words in her mouth!”

“I was summing up the situation, you ignoramus!”

“What did you call me?!”

“You heard me! You don’t have a leg to stand on, so you result to calling for an objection when you have nothing to object to!”

By this point, both lawyers were two inches away from being nose to nose. And Allison was all for it. Squeaking, she leaned far forward in the bench, resting her arms atop the first row behind her and laying her chin on her folded wrists. 

“Order!” The judge banged his gavel, and Allison was sad. “Order in the court! Good grief, this trial is making fine entertainment for the folks at home, I know that much.” Titters among the courtroom. “The objection is overruled. Councilor Drake, sit back down. Councilor McCallister, please continue.” 

Drake stomped back to his seat like a toddler denied a cookie. Claire’s grin was unmistakable. 

Pushing her hair behind her ears, the Princess went on. “I remained in the ICU for a week. Then, they moved me to the rehabilitation wing. I was there for a few weeks. After I went home, I still had to get, you know, rehab and stuff. I, um, went to the clinic twice a week and had a private therapist come to the apartment once a week. 

When I thought I was…physically ready, we decided to get married. Um, that was in Kenosha. Wisconsin. July of this past year. I still had a cast around my leg, but it wasn’t *as* big…”

Bender twisted his own wedding ring around his finger, which was just a plain band of silver encircling his left ring digit. John wasn’t one for the overtly ornamental. 

Mr. McCallister crossed both hands at the small of his back. “And about how long did it take you to recover?”

Claire gnawed on her lower lip. “Really, until just…now,” she said, gaze briefly flickering to her leg. “It still hurts sometimes, especially when the weather’s bad. I…don’t feel comfortable holding the baby on the street or the sidewalk when it’s raining because my leg starts to throb. And I have to be aware which shoes I wear.”

The prosecutor nodded. “Have you retained any PTSD-related episodes from your experience?”

“Objection!” Drake spat, rising from his seat. Mr. McCallister had been clutching a Number 2 pencil that he now snapped in two pieces. As for Allison herself, her nails dug into the skin of her palms. ‘I really don’t like that guy.’ “Miss Standish does not have any medical expertise that I am aware of, Your Honor. How would she *know* if she has any ‘PTSD-related episodes’?”

The judge sighed and sat back in his seat. Andy crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine. Sustained.”

Drake smirked in triumph and sat back down. Ally yearned to deck him. 

Judging by the look on her husband’s face, so did he.

Mr. McCallister rolled his eyes. “I will *rephrase*. Have you retained any ‘upsetting or traumatic’ episodes following your ordeal?” 

Nodding, Claire scooted closer to the microphone. “I have nightmares. They’re thankfully not as often as they were in the beginning but…I still wake up in the middle of the night screaming. Drenched in a cold sweat. I see his face… He’s always there. I can’t escape him…” 

“For the record, and the jury, can you please point out the ‘him’ in question?”

Claire didn’t hesitate a second in bodily pointing directly to Jake Bender, seated in the seat furthest away at the defensive table. The only one in screaming neon orange with the stark D.O.J. letters emblazoned on his back. The chains wrapped around his wrists, ankles, and waist. His sagging skin, broken teeth, and bruised flesh. The prisoner seated beside his immaculately-dressed attorney. 

There, the normally taciturn dipshit bared those broken teeth in a chilling grin, one that forced the collected Princess back. Allison pursed her lips. The man was pure evil, it was unbelievable. She kinda had a newfound respect for John, having had to grow up under the same roof for years with that…with *that*. The fact that he had come out of it a decent person—‘Shit, compared to Jake, he’s a frigging saint!’—showed a lot of character. 

Mr. McCallister then asked her how it all had impacted Claire’s mothering abilities, as well as her job opportunities. The Princess’ lips compressed in a thin line. “Well, like I said. I’m reluctant to take Danielle outside when the sky is overcast because then my leg starts to hurt and I’m off-balance. She’s not walking yet, not entirely. She can stand on her own, but…she hasn’t taken her first steps yet; she still needs our assistance to get around. It’s also hard to drive…when my leg starts hurting. It’s even hard to sit here. As for job prospects, I wanted to start searching for an entry-level teaching position when the baby was about seven or eight months but…obviously, I couldn’t do that. I needed to concentrate on my recovery first and foremost.”

The prosecutor nodded with a small smile and rested his witness. Drake climbed up from his seat to cross-examine, his hands crossed casually behind his back, draped in a freaking three-thousand-dollar pinstripe suit. Allison sat up straighter.

To her friend’s benefit, though, all the redhead did was regard the piece of slime with the same cool disdain Ally was used to reading on her face. The look the Princess had perfected eons ago. The same one that could freeze anyone in their tracks before they could say boo. Ally grinned. ‘That’s my bitch.’ 

Drake, that slimeball, strolled to the bench like he hadn’t a care in the world. He smiled down at Claire, which clearly did not reach his eyes, shielded behind those same wire-rim glasses. “Miss Standish! At last, we meet.”

Claire scoffed. “You don’t need to speak to me like a James Bond villain, Mr. Drake. Please.”

John barked a laugh. In the back of the room, in a bad Sean Connery-esque accent, Ferris imitated, “Shaken. Not schtirred.” 

Drake chuckled but the sound did not contain much humor to Allison’s ears. “That’s all right. I’ve never seen any James Bond movies.”

Allison quirked an eyebrow and exchanged a glance with Andy. ‘Who has never seen a single James Bond movie?’

“So!” he said, clapping his hands like this was all in good fun. “You, Miss Standish, are the bookend of the trial. The Golden Goose. Why, you’re the prosecution’s whole case! I suppose it’s my job to try and poke as many holes in that case as possible. So, forgive me if I do my job.” Claire folded her arms over her chest and glowered. 

Drake crossed back to the defensive table, slid a piece of paper out from a manila folder, and returned to the bench, scanning it. “I have here your record from Shermer General, Miss Standish. Says here that you broke your leg in three places—the tibia, the patella, and the femur. And yet, here you are today, wearing heels.” He gazed down at her black riding boots with a pointed stare. 

Allison sneered. Those were *barely* heels. They were, like, an inch off the floor, if that! And Claire was mostly recovered. The shoes she wore to trial were none of the creepo’s damn business!

Claire rolled her eyes. “These are *riding* boots, Mr. Drake. As in, fit for riding horses? They are 1 inch off the ground exactly and are literally the highest I can go right now without falling flat on my face. These hardly constitute a heel.”

In the front row, John grinned and leaned back in his seat. Ally muttered “Unbelievable” beneath her breath. 

“Be that as it *may*,” the asshole said, pacing to and fro. “One would assume, if a young lady such as yourself was so uncomfortable, why would she dress herself up in such…” And here, he waved her up and down, wordlessly encompassing her outfit. 

“Objection!” Mr. McCallister roared, jumping up from his seat. He glared at Drake. “Your Honor, what does my client’s *ensemble* have to do with the crash or her testimony? Or is Councilor Drake just out of conceivable lines of questioning to ask Miss Standish?”

In return, Drake glared right back at him. “It pertains *to* the crash, *Councilor* McCallister!” 

“That’s bull and you know it!”

“Order, order!” Judge Stevens slammed his gavel as Allison snickered over Mr. McCallister’s less than professional usage of “bull”. “Councilor McCallister is right. Councilor Drake, Miss Standish’s, er, wardrobe has nothing to do with this case. Please cease harping on what she’s wearing; she didn’t come to court naked. Now, proceed.”

Mr. McCallister smirked and lowered himself back to his chair. If Drake were a cartoon, steam would be rising from the top of his head right about now.

Making a sound of annoyance, he seemed to be loitering as he faced the galley, like, in Allison’s opinion, he was gathering his thoughts. A light appeared to turn on over his head—again, like a cartoon—and he spun on his heel to face Claire. “Miss Standish. You clarified that, when the car came sailing toward you, you were tying your shoe and you only had time to glimpse the automobile’s grille and some trees before it hit you, correct?”

The redhead nodded once. “Yes, that’s correct.”

Drake tipped toward the podium. “Then, how do you even know it was Jacob Bender behind the wheel at all?”

“Objection!” Mr. McCallister’s irate voice rang out again, as Allison knew it would. She was getting quite familiar with the way legal proceedings worked. “Your Honor, whether Jacob Bender did, indeed, commit the act on May the 17th or not is not under inspection here. We know he did. What *is* is whether he was sane or not when he did so.”

“Your Honor, I am merely suggesting—“ 

The judge banged his gavel. “Councilor McCallister is correct again. Your line of questioning is irrelevant, Councilor Drake. Sustained.”

The prosecutor looked like the cat that ate the canary. Drake, meanwhile, appeared to want to wring his neck and then go on a murder spree himself. 

“I will *rephrase*,” he bit, the skin of his complexion an angry crimson hue. ‘Dang, he looks like a tomato with hair.’ “I just meant, Miss Standish, that you couldn’t have possibly known the doer was my client until you woke up. So…who told you, pray tell?” 

John’s eyes narrowed. A muscle in Claire’s jaw quirked. “My husband, of course. He was the first person I saw upon waking.”

“Hmm,” Drake murmured like a douche, trotting to the middle of the floor. He held both arms akimbo, one hand clutching the printout of her hospital record. “Interesting. So, the first account you hear of your accident…is from the so-called ‘abused’ son of my client, recently released from his custody. Is that right?”

Bender’s laugh was incredulous but not surprised. To her right, Andy scoffed with a shake of his blond head. 

Claire, to her credit, remained as cool and collected as ever. Folding her hands on the tabletop before her, she leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “Firstly, I can assure you, as can most people here, *Mr.* Drake, that there is nothing ‘so-called’ about any abuse your shithead client imposed on either my husband or my mother-in-law. Secondly—“ Coming to a stand, her full five foot eight inches, she leaned forward, bracing both hands flat on the dais, glowering coldly the whole journey…until she suddenly smiled brightly, lacking any real warmth. “—yes, that’s correct! You can bend over and smell your own farts now.”

In the front row, John never looked prouder of his wife whilst Drake noticeably scowled behind his glasses, dark brows coming down low over small blue eyes. Allison thought the wastoid puckered his lips and blew her a kiss, not an act he’d normally perform. Not in public, anyway. 

Drake fisted his fingers around the printout in his right hand, tendons bulging with irritation. “I find it interesting,” the asshole began, first addressing the jury, then the galley, amplifying his voice when he reached “interesting”. “That the first person who tells you of your…circumstances, Miss Standish—“ Here, he turned back around to face Claire. “—indeed, the first point of view of your…accident you hear is from the tongue of the doubtlessly *vengeful* son of my client!” 

“Objection!”

This time, Drake completely ignored the protest even as Judge Stevens hammered his gavel to garner his attention. Instead, he drew ever closer to Claire. Enraged, Allison sat up straighter. “He wanted you to hate him as much as he did, didn’t he, Miss Standish?”

Another calm and collected scoff. “That’s simple, Mr. Drake. I already *did*.”

The slimeball straightened. “Ah, so *that’s* why you’re here. Today. In this courtroom. You see—“ Spinning on his heel, he briefly addressed the jury before returning to glare into Claire’s face, gleeful flames licking in his eyes. “—she admits it herself.”

Folding her arms over her chest, Claire quirked a red eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Drake curled both hands beneath the dais. “You wanted your own form of revenge against my client for what he *supposedly* did to your husband. To your mother-in-law. This has nothing whatsoever to do with you, does it, Miss Standish?”

Very briefly, Claire glanced over the asshole attorney’s shoulder at John. “Of course it does! But I won’t lie and say that seeing your piece of crap client finally behind bars where he belongs for what he put John and Laura through for twenty years isn’t icing on the damn cake!”

But Drake wasn’t done. Leaning ever closer to the Princess, he breathed, in a stream of consciousness, “You have tons of money, as does your family. The Standishes nearly own this town. None of you care about getting this poor man—“ He gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward Jake, toward the defensive table, and nearly the entire galley laughed in incredulity. ‘”Poor man” my ass!’ “—who was obviously suffering from severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and anxiety attacks—likely still is—thrown in the clink for the rest of his natural life! What do any of *you* care?! *You* got what you wanted! *You* get to frolic off to your expensive high-rise with your expensive cars and your expensive furniture and your expensively dressed baby and your…” He glanced at John out the corner of his eye. “...not so expensively dressed husband!” 

Bender rolled his dark eyes and jeered. “I’ll have him know that this shirt cost thirty-five bucks.” 

Andy and Ty grinned. Megan muttered that her panty hose cost about that much.

Dropping her arms to her sides, Claire pushed herself forward, her eyes chilled to the bone. Arctic. Terrifying. Allison did *not* like being on the receiving end of *that* look. “Mr. Drake,” she drawled in that deadly “calm before the storm” tone of hers. “Your *client* is a raging maniac who justifies every single solid thing he’s ever done. From beating the shit out of my husband when he was just a boy to running me over. He was not ‘temporarily insane’. He is perfectly calculating. He knows exactly what he is doing. *Exactly*.” Sifting her hands in his shirt, Drake’s eyes widened behind his glasses as she brought him closer to her—dragged him closer to her, more like. “And if you *think* for one *second* that I am going to fall for your ‘He’s just a mentally ill victim’ bullshit, one *second*, you got another thing coming. You don’t give a *crap* about anyone but than yourself. You, Mr. Drake, are an opportunist. You go where the money is, and that is all. So don’t act like you’re this defender of the downtrodden, you bootlicking maggot. You’re right that we Standishes ‘own this town’. We could buy your firm out *pretty* easily, then fire you. And make sure no one in the Greater Chicago Area touches you. So…I suggest you slink back to your seat next to your *client* before I get *really* angry. ‘Kay?” 

Ensuing, a pin-drop could be heard amidst the galley. Only the sound of Sylvia Takahari’s twangy, barking laughter immediately following broke the pregnant quiescence. Drake blinked, then did just as Claire had “requested”, turning tail without a word and slumping, with as much dignity as possible, back to the defensive desk. Allison didn’t miss the glare Jake shot him as soon as he sat down.

“Dang!” Jackie’s mother exclaimed, wiping a tear from her eye. “Claire, honey. I gotta bill collector that’s been botherin’ the heckfire outta me for weeks. Think I can sic ya on him? I was thinkin’ Hideo but…” 

“Mom.” Jackie shook her dark head. Brian was laughing. 

So was Ferris. And even Cameron. “I can see those mean girl skills have not been lost to time,” Bueller said, continuing to cackle from the back of the room.

“Yeah, Claire,” Cameron Frye agreed. Clearly wearing one of his red Gordy Howe jerseys underneath a gray suit jacket. *The* gray suit jacket. Allison didn’t think he owned another, despite his parents virtually living in a museum. “I damn near peed myself.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Shut up, Ferris.”

John did not look at all surprised—he was married to her, after all—but grinned all the same. “Hey, Queenie. Can you do…all of *that*…later? You know. *Later*?”

Claire blushed lightly and ducked down in her chair, embarrassed. Josh smacked Bender in the shoulder. “That’s my *sister*, you pervert, and that’s *disgusting*. Ugh. I need brain bleach.” 

His brother-in-law glanced askance at him. “How do you think Dani came about, magic?” 

“Don’t burst my bubble.”

Allison squealed quietly behind her knuckles. Even in somewhere like a courtroom, her friends could not help but revert to form. And she kind of adored them for it. Andy’s arm tightened around her shoulders. 

The judge banged his gavel, but he, too, was holding in a smirk behind his white beard. “Order! Councilor Drake, are you rested?” At his nod, Judge Stevens added, “All right, the jury will begin deliberations and we will meet back here when all twelve members have reached a proper verdict. For now, I declare recess. Court dismissed.”

In the aisle, as they were preparing to leave, John snaked an arm around the Princess, that same smartass grin back on his lips. He looked frigging pleased as punch. “You really chewed that guy up and spat him out.”

Claire’s shoulders bobbed beneath the pink cardigan she wore—a sheepish shrug, but her lips were pulling at the corners. ‘She’s always been a faker.’ “It all just…fell out of my mouth.” 

“Like I said,” Ferris added, interrupting the moment in the only way he knew how. Today, he donned the same tie-dye suit he’d worn to the wedding in July, which looked doubly absurd next to Cameron’s staid gray separates. It was almost odd without Sloane by his side, as usual, but the brunette was at the apartment watching Danielle, making sure she didn’t get into anything *too* crazy. “You’ve retained your mean girl skills, Miss Claire. I mean, Mrs. Claire.” 

Claire rolled her eyes heavenward. 

One other person stopped them just as they were exiting the courthouse. Andy and Allison were halfway to the transparent front doors when a familiar voice halted their progress. 

A cool, dauntingly familiar voice. 

“Johnathon.”

**  
‘Oh, fucking great.’

When Tights and Mrs. Tights skidded to a halt in the weirdly decadent lobby of the courthouse, he, Claire, and Uncle Lou nearly ploughed headlong into them, like frigging dominoes. He couldn’t exactly reproach the Sport and the Basketcase, though. He, too, had damn near jumped out of his skin at the unmistakable drawl of Nora Standish’s upper crusty Midwestern accent, accustomed as it was after all this time. Generally, when she deigned to start a conversation with him—which was hella rare—it was over something she intended to criticize him about. His hair or his clothes or his parenting style. 

Bracing himself, closing his eyes briefly, John turned on the heel of his black boot. He didn’t have “dress shoes” and had absolutely no intention of buying any. He’d tried to borrow a pair of the Brainiac’s, but they were uncomfortable as hell and anyway, who the fuck was looking at his *feet*?!

Nora. He bet Nora was looking at his feet. Mayhap that was what this was all about in the first place. 

‘Should-a worn my screamin’ red Docs. Piss her off more.’

Things were a bit cooler now between him and his mother-in-law, had been ever since she’d bizarrely and unexpectedly stood up for him during her own testimony some time back, but he was no dummy. He knew it was just a matter of time before *something* would set her off and John would be back in her bad graces all over again. He had the M-I-L to beat all M-I-Ls. 

The Noracaine cleared her throat and tidied herself, or whatever, pushing her blonde hair back from her face with those Freddy Kruger nails of hers. “I…wasn’t aware previously—until now, that is—that…your homelife as a child was so…fraught.” 

John compressed his lips. Claire gently rested a hand on his bicep. ‘Why do you think I “didn’t get on” with my old man? We didn’t agree on politics?’ “Yeah.” What else could he say?

Nora sighed. This was *not* easy for her, and fuck him if he wasn’t enjoying every second of it. “Well. I am…glad…you came to us, then. And…I hope they throw the book at him. No one gets away with harming a child. Not if *I* have anything to say about it.”

“…yeah.”

Nodding once, as if that alone would take care of the whole thing, Nora Standish clip-clopped in her teetering Christian Louboutin heels to the exit. Claire watched her every step of the way.

Indeed, they all did. 

“That woman,” Jockstrap said, pointing at Nora’s back as she disappeared through the front doors. “Is weird.” 

“Yeah,” Sporto agreed, his mouth twisted. “Just when we thought we had her pegged…” 

“Those Standish women,” Bueller tutted, wiping imaginary dust from his obnoxiously loud tie-dye suit jacket. “They just keep ya guessin’!” 

Lou craned his head. “She has a nice butt, though.”

Claire and the rest of the girls, plus Josh, grimaced. The guys nodded in agreement. 

Richard Standish appeared behind them, like a frigging ghost, and curled two hands around John’s and his uncle’s shoulders. “Hey! No ogling my wife’s butt.” 

“I concur with that statement.” Clarence Joshua Adalbert, who mimed gagging into a potted plant. 

Back at the apartment, before they went inside, his ma caught up with them, flipped blonde hair trailing behind her as she jogged to catch up. “Johnny, wait!” she called before either he or Claire could reach the ostentatious black and white scalloped awning and intricately carved double oak doors that comprised the entrance of the building. Not to mention the two similarly-dressed Bruce Willises standing guard outside, two tommy guns shy of a mob hit. 

Laura Bender paused in front of him, hands braced flat against the thighs of her black slacks, mountain of hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Good Lord,” she breathed between pants, all the blood rushing to her face. “Used to jog every mornin’. Now, just running across the parking lot tires me out.” Straightening, she pushed her waves back from her reddened face and sobered. “I won’t keep y’all. I—I know you have a baby to get back to. I just want you to know…I *did* help you. As a little boy, I mean.” John felt Claire wrap a hand around his bicep as his ma glanced down sheepishly and played with the end of her sweater. “’Afore I got into the…stuff. I’d get you up. Get you dressed. Take you to get your hair cut.” 

One side of his mouth quirked. His ma was forever trying to get him to cut his hair. 

Abandoning rolling up her sweater into a ball, she gazed into his face, a sort of rueful smile about her shiny lips. John stared down at this woman, his *mother*, whom hadn’t been part of his life in so long…but now was starting to be again and was kinda hoping she’d continue to be. She may have been a not so great mom, but she was doing pretty good in the grandma department. 

“I was an okay mother,” his ma said with a sad shrug. “Once upon a time.” 

John sighed, stuck one hand out of his pants pocket, and grasped his mother’s elbow. “You did all right, Ma. But…thanks. For tellin’ me.”

Laura Bender smiled, really smiled, and nodded. Claire grasped her mother-in-law’s hand. All three of them walked inside to ascertain Dani hadn’t drowned Sloane in spit-up and Not So Little Foot hadn’t mistaken her for food. 

A few days later, court was reconvened. At the asscrack of dawn. John and Claire were already wide awake, used to having to rouse this early on a weekend due to Dani’s inner clock—babies had no concept of time—but everyone else sans infant stumbled into the courtroom as if drunk. In one hand, John loosely clutched a cup of that generic coffee they made here as he loitered in the front row. In the other, he held Dani—the last and only time she’d be permitted in the courtroom. The pronouncement of verdict would only take a few minutes. If there was any justice in the world, his old man would never see the light of day again. 

Dani kept trying to grab ahold of his coffee cup. “Sorry, kid,” he chuckled, sipping the sludge through a straw. One of Claire’s habits he’d grown accustomed to. “Jesus, this stuff tastes like mud. You’ll appreciate a good cup o’ joe when you’re older, but this ain’t it, chief.” With a careless turn of his wrist, he tossed the container in the nearest trash bin. Then, grimacing, popped an Altoid to get rid of the aftertaste. 

Sporto came bumbling up behind him next, with Basketcase at his heels. His tie was askew, his charcoal gray suit jacket was half tucked into his pants, and the bags under his eyes were deep enough to haul cinderblocks. In his left hand, he carried a matching cup of coffee. In the other was a glass cask of Jim Beam. 

“Damn,” he muttered as they approached, blinking sleep out of his eyes. Tights looked like a bemused newborn baby first thing in the morning. “Couldn’t they have *not* called this first thing in the morning on a Saturday?” 

“What’s a’ matter, Sporto? Interrupt your beauty sleep?” Bender cracked, hefting Dani higher on his hip. 

“Screw you,” he parried half-heartedly and poured a stream of Jim Beam inside the coffee cup. 

Allison cackled as she was wont. 

Judge Stevens appeared out that side door nearest the judge’s bench, climbed up onto the podium, and banged his gavel twice. “Order! Please be seated.”

The courtroom sat. Two uniformed policemen appeared through the courtroom’s double doors and escorted his father down the seemingly interminable alley to the defensive table, where a stone-faced Drake already sat ramrod straight in his chair. The chains around his ankles and waist could be heard making clink-clink sounds with every step. 

John didn’t take his eyes off the man for a second. 

The judge rested his gavel atop the podium. “We will now hear the jury’s verdict of case ##9011-80008, Claire Standish and the State of Illinois vs. Jacob Bender. Foreperson Coleman, have you reached a unanimous verdict?”

A dude of average height, average build, and average everything in a green polo and khakis rose to a standing position, clutching a sheet of paper. Bender figured this to be the foreperson. He nodded and read down from his printout. “We have, Your Honor. Um, ‘we, the jury of case #9011-80008, of sound mind and body, unanimously find the defendant, one Jacob Thomas Bender, guilty as charged.’”

Murmurings from the galley. John had figured—hoped—that a jury of their peers would see reason, his stain of a father was clearly *not* insane, whether temporarily or otherwise, but hearing the verdict read aloud still had him feeling like Atlas—all the damn weight of the world off his shoulders. Taking a deep breath, his friends seated around him clapping him on the arm, he glanced ahead of him at Claire, who was both happy and relieved. 

His old man, however, was not. He was lambasting Drake, and quite loudly. “You were paid pretty damn handsomely! I was promised I’d get off! What do ya have to say for yourself?! You reamed me!”

Drake, already in a standing position, was packing up his briefcase. He scoffed audibly beneath his breath. “The money stopped coming in when Mr. and Mrs. Lyle got arrested. You’re lucky I didn’t drop you right away. Good day, Mr. Bender, and good luck. You’ll need it.”

The same two pigs ushered the ranting and raving jackass back outside, presumably to the Cook County Sheriff’s Office van parked in the lot. 

Bender grinned. ‘So much for “You have the right to remain silent.”’ 

Judge Stevens slammed his gavel once more. “Order, order! We shall meet back here on Tuesday at 1040 for sentencing. For now, court is adjourned. And Miss Standish, congratulations.”

Beaming, Claire shook the judge’s hand as he climbed down from the podium, embraced McCallister and each of her parents in turn, then jogged up to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and, before he could voice some smartass comment or another, whatever came to mind, she kissed him, long and slow and deep, and boy howdy, he sure as hell forgot what he was going to say. Shit, he nearly forgot how to breathe. 

Cherry kept her arms loosely looped around his neck when she ultimately pulled away. “Damn, Princess,” he panted, glad for that Altoid now.

“We won!”

“And we all know you like to win, Queenie.”

Claire lightly whapped his bicep. “You’re one to talk. You sulk for days when you lose at Madden.” 

John shrugged. She wasn’t wrong. 

His ma was next in the hug conga line. “Congrats, you two! I knew y’all could do it! Finally, he’s goin’ behind bars where he belongs. Should-a been there years ago, I know.”

Claire squeezed her mother-in-law’s arm with a small smile. “We won’t be looking backward anymore. Just forward.” 

Or so they’d try. John knew the both of them were going to be facing nightmares for some time to come; that was not going to go away any time soon, like magic, just because the perpetrator of those nightmares was. 

“All right!” Bueller, in a circumspect blue velvet suit, clapped his hands to garner everyone’s attention. “This is nice and all but I suggest we take this party somewhere less…” He glanced around himself, making a face, and shrugged. “Just less. Peggy Sue’s, anyone? I’m buying!”

A cheer went up amongst the galley. And the jury. 

Jockstrap wrapped an arm around Bueller’s neck. “Dude. I think you just opened yourself up to chaos.” 

“Eh, I’m used to it. You *have* met my sister.”

As they all poured out of the courtroom, then the courthouse, and into the early morning Chicago sunshine, John Bender, hefting his kid in one arm and clutching his wife’s hand loosely in the other, intent on heading for the Audi parked haphazardly in the lot, allowed a genuine beam to cross his face. Because, for the first time in, well, *ever* he truly felt untethered. There were no more strings to his past left tied to him. 

Now, honestly and for real, he could concentrate on his future.

…his very redheaded future.

“Newtewered!”  
**

THE END...maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: lols the last few chapters were kind of...TBC meets Law and Order. Or Snore and Boredom, as I called it as a kid xD I didn't really start to appreciate shows like that 'til I got older. Kinda crazy that L&O is still on. It would've just premiered back in their day. I tried to make these scenes less snore and boredom-y and more entertaining.
> 
> Note 2: In reality, Claire accosting Drake would've landed her in contempt xD...but she's a Standish. Someone filthy rich like that probably would've gotten away with it. Money makes the world go around, especially in the early 90s. 
> 
> Note 3: Justice won the day! Like I would write anything else xD That guy deserved to rot in prison, moreso than most, I'd wager.
> 
> Note 4: Just that epilogue left...and a cameo xD


	56. Epilogue: Shermerly Hills 60062

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the epilogue, which I finished last night! As for the title...come on, y'all know I'm a 90210 fan xD I compared Stubbie to Steve Sanders. "I want to exchange THIS egg!" I've been itching to use that title xD The bridge one-shot should be out soon, then I'll take a wee break to work on my original stuff and start on the prequel.

1993:

“All right, Coco or Fruity?”

From the child’s front seat of the shopping cart, a still growing index finger pointed directly at the brown, chocolatey box of Coco Pebbles, a wide grin across the beige-complexioned face it was attached to, so much like her old man’s. The nose, the eyes, even the dimples… Everything except for the thick, pillowy lips, that was all her mother. And the red hair, though the shade had darkened to a deep auburn over the last few years in lieu of the ginger she’d been born with.

The perpetual mischievous sparkle in her eye, though--*that* was all Bender. 

John hurled the brown rectangular box inside the cart and its ever-growing pile of crap. The familiar cartoon facades of Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble smiled up at him offering them both hollowed out rock-bowls of cereal. “A girl after my own heart.” 

Dani giggled and John’s grin broadened. He loved the sound of her laugh. 

Damn but there was *so much* shit in this shopping cart. Back in good, ol’ Shermer a week and already, they had more than enough food to feed the whole damn town. 

At first, he’d been hesitant—to put it mildly—to move back here. *Lots* of bad memories. But…Claire had gotten a job here, and then so had he. And besides, it wasn’t like they could keep raising Dani in a high-rise. Apartments, especially ones on the frigging nineteenth floor, weren’t the safest environments for almost four-year-olds, no matter how carefully they baby-proofed the place. Olivier and the two Bruce Willises were sad—bereft, really—to see them go, but they’d promised to visit. 

John snorted. Visiting their old concierge and doormen. Only them. 

Besides, they only had the two bedrooms in the apartment, the master and the nursery, which John and Ty had converted into a little girl’s room when Dani was about two. And now, uh, with another “accident” on the way…

Well, they were *definitely* going to need more room. 

So, he’d manned up and bought a house. With his *own* money, thanks. It wasn’t exactly in Richieville, but certainly wasn’t in the shithole he’d called home for eighteen years, either. The house was around Sporto’s old neighborhood. In the Everything Else. 

Speaking of which, guess who else was expecting a little “accident”? 

Yeah, that hadn’t been planned, either. When Basketcase showed him the Test, Sporto all but had a coronary. But, to his credit, after getting *major* drunk at the Bull, with John laughing and laughing some more over Heinekens, he’d gotten over the shock pretty quick and worked real hard day in and day out until he won himself a raise at the stupid yuppie mad men firm he worked for. They still lived in the same apartment, though. Sporto and Basketcase were soon going to find out how difficult raising a kid living in the city really was. 

In the meantime, Al and Claire were doing that whole “Father of the Bride: Part II” thing. You know, being pregnant at the same time. Trading maternity clothes. Complaining about cramps. Talking about their weird cravings. And, most of all, sending their husbands out on errands of all kinds at God-forsaken hours of the morning. “I want some tacos, can you get them for me? No, not at Taco Bell just down the street, at that little taco truck clear across town. I know it’s 2 A.M., but *please*, I’m so bloated!” “I’m hot. We need a new fan. I don’t *care* that it’s October!” “Where. Are. My. Favorite. Maternity. JEANS?! JOHN!” 

Sporto, of course, was positively bewildered. John had been through all this song and dance before with Dani, so he was just amused at Andy’s reactions. Once, the Sport had literally broken down crying while the two of them were en route to fetch the (very hungry) girls Dairy Queen. At…4 in the morning. 

As for everyone else in their ragtag band…

The bouquet prophecy had come to pass. The Brainiacs were engaged—like *just* engaged. Dorktron had dropped some clichéd proposal on Lady Brainiac on a trip to New York City…atop the Empire State Building like in that new Meg Ryan movie, “Sleepless in Seattle”. Tom Hanks was in it, which naturally meant that the flick was romcom catnip for chicks. Claire, Al, and Jackie loved it and saw it in the theatre twice. His wife made him sit through it on her second viewing, and he had promptly fallen asleep in the popcorn. 

Bueller and Sloane were *also* still engaged. They were planning some kind of all-out…thing at their palatial pad in town. It was taking forever to plan, but Bueller wouldn’t settle for less than perfect. That included a legitimate performance of “Danke Schoen” from Wayne Newton himself. And elephants and trapeze artists and the entirety of the von Steuben Parade and fuck knew what or who else. Frye would continue living with them in an apartment over their garage. 

Jockstrap and Blondie were fucking everywhere. They’d just received a postcard from them…sent from El Salvador. Apparently, the two were living in a damn treehouse. A *treehouse*. In this tribal village 200 kilometres outside of the capital. They seemed to be happy as clams, at least in the photos they’d attached. All smiles and shit. And they didn’t even have TV! Forget it, John would’ve gone wholly nuts within two days. 

Josh and Mikkel had been living together for about a year in the Evanston area until they abruptly decided to hightail it up to Canada and get hitched. It took some digging to find a licensed non-denominational clerk who’d marry them, Josh being Catholic and Mikkel being Jewish. To find one here in the States? Forget about that. Hopefully, that would change at some point. 

For the longest time, Ty and Megan insisted they were perfectly content, as they put it, “living in sin” in an apartment above the warehouse. But then Ty got drunk and suddenly proposed last year, and the two skipped off to Atlantic City. They really *did* get married by Elvis. And not just Elvis but a tourist from South Korea dressed as Elvis who happened to be ordained! John was jealous. 

As for his old man…dude was chilling in his current house of establishment, the Stateville Correctional Center. It was a maximum security facility in Crest Hill, to where Jakey was remanded following the Lyle criminal trial. Otherwise, he likely would’ve gone to MCC in Chicago, a more urban prison with a rooftop exercise yard. His old man had been found heavily complicit in the Sally Burckhardt case. 

In fact, that old key in his Swiss army knife, John had discovered, opened the shed he’d never been allowed inside of…and the pigs had uncovered a whole shitload of evidence, including Frank Lyle’s old Mako Shark Corvette spotted with the girl’s blood. The documentarians had a field day. He and Claire were going to see the doc that weekend.

Back in the present, John circled the rapidly filling wagon and curled both his hands around the handle. Dani’s pink LA Gears blinked as she propelled her legs back and forth in the high seat. “Okay,” he breathed, gazing down at the shopping list Claire had given him. Part of him still marveled that he was here, in this…situation. A husband. A dad. Out *food shopping*. With a GD shopping list in his hand. His teenaged self would’ve kicked his current self in the balls. But that teenaged self was a punk best left in the past, and right now, he was focusing on his future. With his wife. His daughter. And Unnamed Accident. And it was all pretty sweet, if John did say so himself. 

None of that meant he had to let go of who he *was*. He was still John Bender, badass extraordinaire. He was just…a more mature version. 

John’s forehead furrowed. “Ugh. We have to get those diet bars your ma likes.” And made a face. 

Dani copied him. “Why diet? Mama not fat. She pregnant.”

Snorting, John blew a piece of dark hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, *you* try telling her that. She may actually listen to you. ‘Cause she sure as hell doesn’t to me.” 

“Sure as hell.”

“Damn right.”

He, eh, still had *slight* issues curbing the language around the offspring.

Damn right.

John pushed the cart forward—

\--only for it to crash headlong into someone *else’s* cart with a resounding clang. Cringing, Bender automatically reached out to steady Dani, making sure that she was all right, in one piece—standard parent’s reaction to near calamity—then, without glancing up from checking her out, said, “Whoa! Sorry, dude.” 

“No harm, no foul.”

John froze. 

He knew that voice. 

But…it couldn’t be. Could it?

Oh, yes it could! He was back in Shermer, after all. 

John Bender, now twenty-six years of age, leaned back against the towering aisle of colorful cereal boxes and smirked. He folded his arms over his black “Transformers” t-shirt (Per the very pregnant wife: “Why the hell are you wearing that shirt?” “What? I like the cartoon!”) and crossed his legs at the ankle: “Well, well, well!”

The bump-ee, whose hair was now more salt than pepper, abruptly froze in his black spats, stark white leisure suit, and ice blue oxford, where he’d been straightening the back wheels of his cart. Dude looked like an extra straight out of “Miami Vice”. John watched as he slowly rose, seemed to hesitate, like, get his bearings or something, shudder, then slowly turn on his heel to face him. 

Yep, that was Dick, all right. He looked tanner, like he’d just come back from vacation in Florida or the Bahamas or wherever. There were more pronounced lines in his face. And, again, his hair was lighter. But it was definitely, *definitely* good, ol’ Dick. 

John’s grin broadened. “Hiya, Dick!” 

Dick’s (orange) eye sockets widened to the size of tea saucers. “*Bender?!*” 

John performed a show of checking out his short fingernails, unhindered now by any gloves, lo it was early November. “That’s what it says on my birth certificate.” 

Dani swung her legs back and forth, back and forth. 

His erstwhile vice principal blinked once, twice, so obviously, John swore he could hear it. It took everything in him not to smirk like his shit didn’t stink. 

Dick fumbled with his hands, like he didn’t entirely know what to do with them all of a sudden. He ended up shoving them in the pockets of his stupid white leisure suit pants. ‘Still wearing those things, I see. Only a decade or so out of date.’ 

He could hear Claire, Chicago’s own fashion police, squawking in his head now. ‘Studio 54 called from 1979 and it wants its duds back.’ 

“Uh,” Dick stuttered, lightly kicking at the lower bar of his cart with the toe of his right spat. A crate of Hawaiian Punch rested in the steel bed behind it. “I, er, wouldn’t have expected to run into *you* here. Of all places…” 

John shrugged. Dani was reaching toward a colorful, largely yellow box. He plucked it from the masses and began scanning the nutrition facts. This was what he did now. Though, it was mostly for Claire’s benefit. In his opinion, the kid could eat what she liked as long as it could actually be classified as food. “Well, everyone’s gotta eat, right?” he said without glancing up. “’Gushers?’ Sounds kinda pervo.” After another few seconds, he shrugged again and threw the box in the back of the cart. Dani squealed in gaiety. 

His smile was involuntary. He liked making his kid happy. And if all it took was some circumspectly named gelatin-based snack food with absolutely no nutritional value, more the better. 

Dani kicked her legs back and forth some more and pressed her Claire-esque lips together in a duck-like vibrating pout. One of her L.A. Gears came undone, and he rounded the cart to retie it. 

Dick’s voice floated to his ears, perceptibly stunned. “Is she…uh, is—is she…*yours*?” 

John would’ve been offended at the emphasis on ‘yours’, he really would have, but he was having too good a time being entertained by Dick and his clearly baffled…baffledness. Chuckling, John finished tying Dani’s little sneaker, straightened, and said “Hmm?” as though he hadn’t heard him when he certainly had, then stepped a tad closer to his kid. “Oh, yeah. This one’s mine.” He patted her wavy head, then bent at the knee to be more level with her, cheek to cheek, and grinned brightly. “Can’t ya tell?” 

Dani’s gaze briefly slid to his, then mimicked her father and beamed herself, tiny baby teeth on full display. 

Dick blinked—once, twice, three times. Laughed uncomfortably. John was loving it.

“And, uh.” Dick cleared his throat. Scratched his ear. “Her—her mother?”

John just stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the blatantly rude and unnecessarily probing query. “Ah, she’s around here someplace…” Making a show of spinning on the toe of his Converse and searching the aisles upon aisles for his redheaded wife, he eventually spotted her—classic haircut brushing her cheeks, classic empire waist dress that she should’ve been freezing in but wasn’t—carrying a red basket overflowing with groceries, about to head down a different aisle. Very noticeably seven months pregnant. “Yo, babe!”

Hearing her husband’s voice, Claire paused and turned in her unseasonable flats and just as unseasonable pink floral empire waist dress. John grinned and tagged a thumb over his shoulder. “Look who I bumped into. Heh, heh. Literally.” 

‘Heh, heh. It’s Dick.’

John was a big fan of “Beavis and Butthead.”

Claire beamed and came waddling down the cereal aisle, clutching the basket in one hand and palming her lower back with the other. ‘Cause…though she was technically seven months pregnant, she *looked*, eh, a wee bit bigger than that. 

A lot bigger than that.

Ahm, had he said “another ‘accident’”? What he’d meant was “accidentS”. 

Their sixth month appointment with Doc had started out normally enough. Everything in place and everything in its place, blah-blah. They were called back by that same perpetually sour-faced nurse in white. Claire changed into that robe, hopped up on the examination table/chaise lounge, Doc came in, they chatted for a bit, Doc examined Claire—took her blood pressure, checked for swelling in her hands and feet, talked about her weight gain (Claire, of course, was not happy about this), abstracted a urine sample. You know, the usual. 

“Ugh, I feel so bloated,” Cherry complained whilst Doc squirted some of that blue gunk all over her engorged stomach. John sat in a nylon chair at her side, loosely holding her hand. As the Designated Dad, this was the best he could do. 

Doc chuckled. “Well, let’s turn on Ulli here, and see what’s going on.” The old man gave the ultrasound machine an affectionate pat like it was his pet or something. 

While the machine booted up, the Doc asked how his ma was doing. She’d gone on a few dates with the man’s brother, which John found…bizarre, to say the least. But whatever. Her life.

Right. 

Shoulders bobbing, John tried to ignore his wife’s wry stare in his direction. “Eh, she’s fine. Just got an apartment in Shermer. Wants to be around, you know, for this one’s birth.” He gestured vaguely to Cherry’s swollen belly. 

Doc smiled beneath his bristly mustache. “I’m glad. Nicholas really likes her, you know.” 

“…yeeeeah.” 

Claire shook her head, the rice paper underneath making a sort of crackling sound. 

“I hope you’re comfortable with that.”

“…suuuuuuuuuuuure.” 

Claire snorted. John glared at her. 

He was! He *was* comfortable with that! God knew his ma deserved *some* happiness after living with that shit for twenty years. But…he absolutely did not want to picture her doing what people did on dates. No siree Bob. 

Doc went to grab the transducer probe. “Oh! I have an appointment with your friend, Allison, tomorrow! She’s about as far along as you are, Claire. Anything I should mention?”

Now, it was John’s turn to snort in amusement. “Yeah. Tell Sporto not to cry this time.” 

Claire whapped his shoulder. “You’re one to talk.”

John shrugged. “But the difference is…he never entirely found out about that. I did. So, I win.” 

His wife rolled her eyes. 

Sometimes, it was beneficial having a friend who could not keep a secret to save her life. Especially when she was married to another friend. 

Ulli was all booted up by this point. Doc lowered the transducer probe to Claire’s stomach and began sliding it around all that blue muck. Claire cringed. “I hate this stuff.”

The Doc smiled patiently. “Necessary evil. Where is the little tyke…ah!” 

At once, the familiar mechanical echo of a heartbeat rang out, corner to corner, flooding the whole of the examination room, and John felt a dopey ass grin blooming across his face. Hearing that shit…it would never get old. No matter how many “accidents” they happened to have. This one came care of a busted condom. 

“Nice, strong heartbeat,” Doc commented whilst he and Claire grinned at each other like doofuses. “Yep, this one’s going to be—hmm. *Hmm*.”

The beam fell from both their faces. “’Hmm?’” Claire parroted.

“What ‘hmm’?!” John demanded, clambering to a standing position.

Doc was still gazing at the ultrasound machine’s screen, which was turned away from them. Claire stared up at John, mildly alarmed. John darted forward. “Doc, what—“ 

“I think I hear two heartbeats.” 

Meeting his wife’s gaze, they both blinked, and John craned his neck to stare at the obstetrician, who continued to regard the ultrasound screen, his jaw opening and closing, opening and closing. Plainly befuddled, he croaked, “The…the kid has…two hearts?”

Doc chuckled. John was all the more perplexed. “Most likely, John, we’re dealing with multiples here. Twins.”

…and then, John Bender had to sit down again. Before he damn well fainted. 

‘*Twins?!*’

“*Twins*?!” Cherry gave voice to the exact exclamation running through his consciousness. 

Holy shit. 

“Mhmm,” Doc murmured, pressing a few buttons on the machine’s keyboard. “Let me see if I can find…” Click. Click. Click. Click. “Oh! Yep! There it is! Right behind its sibling.”

John’s jaw was nearly on the floor. 

“Oh, my God!” Claire was crying. He, uh, wasn’t sure if they were tears of joy or not. 

Couldn’t blame her. 

Doc laughed. “Explains why I didn’t notice before now. Heartbeats line up almost exactly. And this one’s right behind the first one.” He, finally, moved his gaze from the ultrasound and met their doubtlessly floored visages with a delighted grin. “You’re lucky. Often in cases like these, the second twin isn’t discovered until the hour of birth!” 

John’s eyes nearly fell out of his skull. 

Ho-ly SHIT. 

“The hour of birth?! Really?” Claire looked terrified. 

Doc nodded sagely. “It’s happened. Quite recently, in fact. But don’t worry.” Hitting a button on the keyboard, he hopped off the doctor’s stool and patted Claire’s hand. “We found him! Or her. Little tyke was playing a pretty good game of hide and seek. Now.” Swerving to his desk, he searched through a bunch of pamphlets and crap until he came up with a few titled “Twins: What You Need to Know” and “So You’re Eating For Three” and “Multiple Births and You”. John took them all with slightly shaking fingers. “Multiples usually run in the family. Do either of you have twins or triplets in your family?”

Claire furrowed her brow. “I don’t think so.”

John, however… “Uh, yeah. My—my uncle and my old man. I, um, always forget but…yeah, they’re twins. Identical.” 

Once more, Doc chuckled. “Well! There ya go. Congratulations, you two.”

The wife glared at him. “Yeah, thanks, John.” 

Bender grinned sheepishly. Okay, so this was his fault. Again. 

Uh, speaking of which…

“Are *both* of them going to be as big as Danielle was?” Claire asked, nearly whining. Her complexion looked green now. Green and frightened. Oops. “’Cause she was eleven pounds when she was born.”

Doc winced. “That all depends on when you deliver them. But don’t worry,” he hastened to add off his wife’s petrified appearance. “Mothers to multiples often don’t carry to term. It’s not unheard of that they go into labor a week or two early.”

Claire, however, was not at all mollified. “But I had Danielle two weeks early, too, and she was still over eleven pounds!” 

John burst out laughing. Claire, risen to a standing position, stepped on his foot, and he yelped. Doc cringed—whether at the reminder of Dani’s, eh, interesting emergence into the world or Claire’s reaction just now, he wasn’t sure; probably both—and smiled shakily. “Oh, that’s right! Uh…you can always schedule a C-section?”

Cherry sighed, wiping the gunk off her stomach. “I may just do that. Or, like, order *all* the drugs. Just ALL of them.”

“I can help you with that,” John said with a succinct nod. “I’ve still got those connections on the South Side.”

Doc asked them both if they wanted a printout and of course they did. Claire spent the whole ride back to Housely—where they were still living at the time—cooing over the two individual splotches, and John would be lying if he claimed he did not peek dangerously while driving the Trans-Am back to the apartment complex. ‘Damn. Now I’ll *really* need to trade this car in. Hopefully not for a fucking minivan.’ 

In the lobby, they showed the printout of the sonogram to Olivier and the two Bruce Willises, who jumped up and down in excitement. John swore the building literally shook with the movement of the two hulking Hulks bouncing parallel to each other. “Might I suggest,” Olivier began in his strong accent, scanning the ultrasound between his fingers. “’Olivier’ for one of the twins? Has a nice ring to it, n’est-ce pas?”

Considering Claire’s love of all things French, the concierge’s “suggestion” was downright dangerous. 

Claire laughed. “What if they’re both girls?”

Three girls. That sounded terrifying. 

Olivier gave one of those dismissive shrugs the French were so good at. According to movies. “Olivia!”

Upstairs, John fished the THIS ONE key out of his jeans pocket just as Mrs. Lowing crept out of 1908 in her red robe and curlers, ostensibly to fetch her paper, but Bender wasn’t stupid. It was the middle of the afternoon. The thing had been there all day. The old crone had just been waiting for them to return and used picking up the paper as a convenient excuse.

John muttered “Mother fucker” beneath his breath and turned to face his (soon to be ex) elderly neighbor. One perk of moving back to Shermer—no more Mrs. Lowing. “Afternoon, Mrs. L! My, the way the sun is hitting the white in your hair today!”

Pfft. There was *only* white in her hair. All white. And there were no windows in the corridor. But whatever. 

Beside him, Claire gently rubbed her distended abdomen and backed toward the apartment door. Away from Mrs. Lowing. 

The old bat scowled at him in her classic old lady way, bent to pick up the newspaper, bones creaking all the while, and flicked her gaze toward Claire. Pasted a bright, denture-filled smile on her face. “Claire, dear! How was the appointment with the OBGYN?”

“It was delightful,” John intoned without inflection, arms crossed. “I feel totally relaxed. My breasts are less sensitive. And my estrogen levels are much more balanced.” 

Mrs. Lowing’s glower returned. As he knew it would. “I wasn’t talking to *you*!” 

“You wound me, Mrs. L. You wound me so deep.”

Cherry was trying to keep the smirk from busting out, he could tell. She had no love lost for Lowing, either. “Um, it went fine, Mrs. Lowing—“ 

“I’ll make you some more of those shakes,” the battle axe went on as if Claire hadn’t spoken. He could feel the revulsion coursing through his wife via osmosis. Last time, those bizarre eggplant-y shakes of hers hadn’t so much “cured” Claire of her morning sickness as contributed to it. 

Claire smile-grimaced. “Th—thanks, Mrs. Lowing. Er, we have to go inside now. Mother’s waiting for my call.”

Mrs. L. stepped back. If there was one thing the old bitch respected, it was other rich people. And Nora Standish took the cake. “Say hello to Nora for me!”

“…sure.”

John stuffed the THIS ONE key in the lock, all the while grumbling beneath his breath. “Yeah, right. My holy asshole.” 

The wife giggled, and he let them both inside. The scent of baking cookies enveloped them whilst Megan Hicks checked the progress of her famous chocolate-coconut cookies in the oven. Dani loved them, and Ty loved her in that frilly blue apron of Claire’s. 

Dani was plunked in front of the Panasonic playing Mortal Kombat with the Jockstrap…and beating him relentlessly. It was very much not an arranged win; she was kicking his ass—Kitana against Johnny Cage—and it was hilarious. Kitana smacked Johnny in the face with a roundhouse kick, and that was all she wrote. TKO. 

“Aww, damnit!” 

Dani grinned and stuck her out her pink tongue. “I win, I win!” 

“Yeah, yeah. Sore winner. You’re just like your old man.”

That comment had Dani grinning brighter. John was proud. 

The mutt—the newly *nutless* mutt, thanks, Claire—loped from somewhere down the hall, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor all the while, dragged himself into the living room, and plopped butt-first right in front of the television. Jockstrap threw up his arms in annoyance. “Thanks, dawg.” 

Not So Little Foot barked a lazy “Woof”, the thick jowls of his neck jiggling with the movement. 

Bender leaned down and kissed the kid’s cheek until she squealed in delight. She enjoyed winning just as much as he did. 

Jockstrap still looked gloomy, sitting there on the floor with his arms crossed. On the couch, his arm over his *quite* pregnant Basketcase, Sporto erupted in laughter. “Beaten by a little girl. Gonna have my sister-in-law lick your wounds for ya, Stubbie?”

Jockstrap harrumphed. “…maybe. When I meet her in El Salvador.”

Al cackled and bit into one of her ever-present reeds of black licorice. One of her cravings. She always had a bag of black licorice in hand. John furrowed his nose. He thought that shit tasted like melted rubber but okay. 

‘Sides, that stuff wasn’t as bad as Claire’s latest. The other night, John had braved the mean streets of Chicago after midnight to fetch the wife fixings for, ugh, crunchy peanut butter and bacon burritos. Furthermore, she simply *needed* this specific brand of peanut butter that was only available on the South Side, so he’d faithfully trudged down there…with a loaded weapon and her Taser that, at first glance, looked like a tube of lipstick. All the way across fucking Chicago, at 12:30 A.M., risking his balls for some GD peanut butter. 

Alas, if he did not return with said peanut butter, he’d *also* be risking his balls. 

Ahem. In any event, he hauled Dani up from the carpeted floor, all 32 and a half pounds of her (damn, was she getting big…not that she hadn’t been pretty big to start with) and deposited her on the weird settee. Why Claire insisted on keeping this thing, he’d never know. She was the only one who sat on it. 

Dani sucked on her bottom lip—just like her mother—and pointed directly at Claire’s expanded abdomen. “Baby!” she exclaimed with all the excitement and knowledge of her 3.5 years. 

Having to explain to her, a toddler, how a *baby* had gotten in there had been…awkward, to say the least. John had scampered away after two minutes, mumbling an excuse about his shows being on. Claire later called him a chickenshit. 

He thought the wife told Dani something about the stork. The stork had paid her a visit. Like Santy Claus. Yeah. Whatever, it was as plausible to a three-year-old as anything. 

Claire beamed and bent down at the knee, bracing her palms flat against her exposed thighs. It was starting to get really frigging chilly outside, but the pregnant Queenie was impervious. “That’s right! And actually, we have something to tell you, sweetie.” Dani cocked her head curiously. Claire straightened and turned to face their assembled friends, smoothing the back of her hair nervously. “Ahem. Um, we have something to tell *all* of you.”

“What’s that?” Sporto cracked. “You guys getting divorced?”

Bender scowled and flipped him off. Tights just chortled like he was so clever. ‘Jackass.’ 

“*No*,” Claire said, rolling her eyes. “We’re…ugh, here.” Reaching into her purse, she pulled out the copy of the sonogram and passed it to Sporto, who haltingly took it between fingers greasy with Sloppy Joe sauce. 

Sloane moved up off the chintz lounge chair and rounded the couch to peer over the Sport’s shoulder; Bueller and Frye flanked either side of her. Ty perched on the arm of the couch beside Sporto with Megan emerging from the kitchen. Jockstrap popped up behind Basketcase, who inched closer to Mr. Tights on the loveseat, her white brow furrowed. 

“Hmm,” Megan murmured, cocking her head to the side. “Isn’t that the ultrasound?” 

“Yeah,” Bender agreed with a snort. “And you can see that there are *two* splotches.” 

At once, all eight of their guests leaned in, blinked, and widened their eyes. “*Two*?!” Sporto sputtered like an idiot, his gaze, like, frigging magnetized to the ultrasound printout. 

John rolled his eyes and grabbed the picture from his grasp. “Yes, genius, two. As in, twins.”

“Holy crap!” Bueller exclaimed, then started laughing. It proved to be contagious, and pretty soon, all eight of them, plus an obviously perplexed Dani, were broken up. “Jesus, Claire! You’re eating for three!” 

Ty grinned and patted his new wife’s back. “Might wanna get Megan here to cook you everything for the next few months.” 

Basketcase was cackling, her own distended abdomen jiggling with every minute effort. She was enjoying this more than anyone. “Whose doing was this? Come on, I know twins run in the family!”

Claire threw John a glower. Ty plum fell off the armrest in gaiety. 

“I knew it!” Al continued in between bouts of laughter. “Your fault, your fault, all your fault. Again.” Stabbing both index fingers in his direction, the previous words came out in sing-song, and John rolled his eyes heavenward. “Dang, two Danielles! Claire, I am so sorry. Wasn’t she, like, ten pounds when she was born?”

“Eleven,” the wife sighed, caressing her belly with her palm and cringing. “Eleven pounds and three ounces. Oh, God. I’m gonna be sick. John, help me lay down.” 

Nodding wordlessly, he assisted her down the corridor to the master bedroom whilst their friends chattered and guffawed and Sporto picked up the phone to immediately call Brainiac and Lady Brainiac over in Baltimore and Dani crowed “Two babies!” 

So, that was then. Fast forward six weeks later, and here they were, back in Shermer. Claire had grown exponentially, and she was due to start her new job twelve weeks after the kiddo…s made their grand debut. In the meantime, John was to commute to HQ until his new, er, project commenced here in good, ol’ Shermer. 

That was to be sometime in late March. It was the beginning of November. Dani was about to turn four. They were planning to attend Thanksgiving at his in-laws’; John just hoped that Nora wouldn’t have Chef Frankie whip up some crazy crap from the Maldives or something. 

“No *way* am I cooking with *this*,” Claire had scoffed, gesturing down her swollen stomach. “The apron won’t even fit around my waist.”

Bender had no complaints. Ty and Megan were off in Florida visiting the latter’s folks, so the new Mrs. Carter couldn’t come to his Princess’ rescue this time. And he actually wanted to consume something edible for the holiday, thanks. 

John had put the down payment on the house not long after Claire first found out she was pregnant again. That was when he realized he needed to step it up. That he *really* couldn’t raise two (three) kids in the middle of a bustling metropolis. In a high-rise. With only two bedrooms. Alas, he’d sucked it up and purchased the small single-family house with the black gabled roof and the attached garage (where he would be keeping his car and not much else!), matching shutters, and Santy Claus-friendly brick chimney on Hughes Street. Definitely not Richieville, but it *was* within walking distance of the schools—Shermer High, Shermer Middle, and the grade schools, Shermer Elementary, Woodrow Wilson Elementary, and Eisenhower Elementary—and boasted one of those wraparound porches. And a pool in the yard. John had found one for a few grand cheaper a mile or so away, but it was situated right on a busy road, and “Pet Sematary” kept haunting his nightmares. 

The first few days of coming home again had been filled with typical moving from the city to the suburbs stuff. You know, transferring boxes of crap marked FRAGILE (not FRAJ-EEL-AY) and putting away endless, endless, *endless* mountains of clothing (mostly Claire’s, but his and Dani’s, too), and scheduling appointments with the local social security office to officially change their address and shit. 

Claire had gone out and bought some cheap furniture they weren’t already having shipped over from Chicago. Like an electric stove, an extra cradle for Baby Bender: The Hidden (they still had the first stupid Cinderella’s Castle one in storage), a new stand for the Panasonic. Yeah, they were definitely on a budget now when they hadn’t been before (or, in Cherry’s case, ever) because John was determined to pay for everything his damn self now, support his damn family, and the wife wasn’t sure what to make of it. She didn’t like that she could no longer afford her favorite maternity shop, for instance, and had to wear--*gasp*--stuff from the mall! Like regular people!

The Shermer Hills Mall was where she’d gotten the summery flower-print thing she was wearing now, even though it was definitely not summer. Her legs were completely bare, and her pink flats only covered her toes and the bottoms of her feet. She looked like she was headed to the beach. John shivered just looking at her.

Dick didn’t, though. Instead, he gawped at her as though seeing a ghost, Bender’s smirk expanded. He felt like the Grinch. 

“Vice Principal Vernon!” the wife cried when she came to a stop before the shopping cart, that same beam on her face. She cocked her head to the side. “Oh, wait. It’s *Principal Vernon* now, isn’t it?”

“Sort of co-principal,” Dick muttered, coughing awkwardly. 

No, Rooney had still not gotten Superintendent; Bueller had (repeatedly, and often) seen to that. But Entitled Dick had felt “owed” a promotion for years, and this year, as John heard, he’d finally gotten it. Thus, he was made “co-principal” with Rooney while John’s old Shop teacher, Mr. Kravitz, was given the veep position. Too bad. Now * he* would’ve been a blast to endure all those detentions with. 

Dick’s jaw hung open like a dead fish’s. It took a few valiant tries before he managed to form a semi-coherent thought. “And, uh, M—Miss Standish.”

Cherry’s lips slid to the side in a wry smirk and held up her left hand; upon the second to last finger twinkled that ring he’d so agonized over. The one that had once been in her earlobe. “Née Miss Standish.” 

If anything, Dick’s peepers went even rounder. John was loving it. “You’re *married*.” A statement, not a question. 

“Yeah,” Bender replied, busying himself by searching for a box of Claire’s diet bars. “Who would-a guessed, right? Me, all domesticated and shit before I’m outta my twenties.”

“John, you’ll never be fully domesticated.”

“Thank *God*.” 

Dick cleared his throat, an anxious quiver to his voice. He assuredly did *not* sound like the authoritarian hardass jerk he’d been nine years ago, back when they were all under his thumb and he was lording what miniscule power he enforced like it was a tangible thing. A frigging shield. Nope. Now, he was just a squirrely little man in a bad leisure suit. “Er, I haven’t seen you both since…” 

John quirked a brow once he dropped the green box with the rectangular, cardboard-y bars inside. “…we graduated?”

“Uh, yeah.” Dick shifted in his spats. Toe to heel, toe to heel. Like Dani did when they were all waiting on line and she was bored. ‘Freak. Doesn’t know how to treat his former students like human beings, does he?’ 

Claire folded her arms over her once again ample boobular region. They were peeping over the top of her dress, and John was pleased. Very pleased. “We’ve been living in Chicago these past few years. But we moved back when I got a job here and, well, you know.” Her gaze flicked down to her belly fondly and gave it a perfunctory tap. 

John watched with amusement as Dick followed the movement of her hand and fingers, his skin going gray beneath his tan. Like he truly hadn’t noticed before *now* that the wife was indeed carrying a bun in the oven. Ahem, two buns in the oven. 

Their former veep looked as if he was going to drop into a dead faint right here in the cereal aisle of an Aldi’s. It was fan-freaking-tastic. 

‘Clean up in aisle 12!’ 

Claire was not finished. The phony smile frozen on her face, the sheer entertainment in her eyes, didn’t abate for a second. “Apartment living isn’t ideal in which to raise a family. Speaking of which, Mr. Vernon! We kinda owe all this to *you*, you know!” 

Dick’s jaw, which he had only recently collected, fell open again. “M—me?!” 

Cherry discreetly nudged John with her elbow, and that ol’ smartass smirk crossed his face. Snaking an arm around the wife’s waist, he added, “Yeah, Dick! You’re the one that put us in detention together that day, right? So…I guess I owe ya one or four.”

Pulling at his stupid blue shirt collar, Dick croaked, “Four?”

Bender’s answering pensive nod was mocking. Not that this needed to be clarified. “One for Claire here. One for Dani. And two for whoever’re sharing a brewski inside there.” He patted Queenie’s growing abdomen, wondering if Thing 1 and Thing 2 could feel it by now. 

Yee-up. That did it. Dick’s mandible had damn near unscrewed itself, declared bankruptcy, and jumped ship in protest. It was all Bender—and Claire, by the looks of her—could do to keep from guffawing. Out loud, anyway. 

Dick vaguely pointed in their direction, standing about six feet apart, like he was fucking E.T. “T—two?! I’m sorry, did you say *two*?!”

Claire nodded while she pulled down two different boxes of Pop Tarts, one blue and one brown. “They run in the family. Well, *his* family.” The wife shot him a playful glare. John just shrugged. 

Rounding the shopping cart, the Princess held aloft both boxes in Dani’s eye line as she kicked her legs and hummed a tune. Sounded like the “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” theme song. “Do you want blueberry or s’mores?” 

Dani paused in her humming. “C’I have both?” 

Claire instantly shook her red head. “No.” 

Frowning, Dani extended one tiny index finger toward the s’mores box. Claire smiled and tossed it on top of the heap, then uncaringly shoved the blue one back on the shelf. When she wasn’t looking, John swept it inside the back of the cart, too. 

Dani beamed. Bender mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key. The kid nodded sagely. 

Yeah, okay. He himself was contributing to that whole “spoiled rotten” thing. But could you blame him? Look at that smile! It was fucking gold! And all for Pop Tarts! MFing Pop Tarts!

‘When she’s a teenager, it’s gonna take a *lot* more to make her smile, so better savor it now, dude*.’ Ain’t that the truth. At fourteen, she’d be wanting her own phone line. At fifteen, to go on dates alone. At sixteen, her own fucking car. 

Ay. He’d say one of those little crotch goblins had better be a boy, but boys were no fucking better. He was proof enough of that. 

If Dick noticed his clandestine hijinks with the illicit blueberry Pop Tarts, he made no outward comment. Instead, the guy emitted a sort of choking sound. “And, uh, do you plan to be in Shermer long?”

Claire turned back around, that same beam on her face. “That depends. My contract at the high school is for the next three years. Then, we’ll see!” 

Dick’s eyes bugged out, as he knew they would. “The hi—high school? As in Shermer High School?”

The wife nodded, her smile becoming a wee bit more self-satisfied. “Yep! I just got a job there!”

For the past 2.5 years, Cherry had been working steadily—first as a substitute when a teacher at Steinmetz went on maternity leave. Then as a full-on Madame Bender herself, dictating conjugations and lots of silent letters and weird food to 8th graders at some hoity-toity private school in Wicker Park for two years. Just before she found out she was knocked up again, Bueller informed her that Shermer was searching for a new French teacher because the old one had run off…with the soccer coach. Thus, mostly on a lark, she interviewed. She ended up getting it and signing a three-year contract for 22K a year. 

She’d been all set to commute…until, oopsie-daisy! Pregnant again. And not with just one, but two Baby Benders, to boot! They didn’t have the room anymore. John would’ve happily looked at literally *any* other suburb—Evanston, Winnetka, Des Plaines, Northbrook, shit, even Lake Forest—but the fucking universe came knocking in the form of a job for *him*. Carter & Craig had a new client, and guess who was heading up the project?

John watched as Dick’s hand tightened around the handle of his shopping cart. His lips twitched. “And, er,” the dude stuttered. “Wh—what will you be doing there?”

Claire’s beam widened. “I’ll be teaching!” 

“…what subject?”

“French.”

“Ohn, HON, HON, HON!” John grabbed the sheathed baguette lounging in the cart, pulled off a piece, and stuffed it in his mouth. 

“So, looks like we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other,” the wife continued, a way too innocent expression on her face. ‘Might as well be whistling and fluttering her eye lashes.’ “All of us, that is.” 

Dick blinked long and slow. ‘He looks like he’s gonna shit himself. I love it.’ “All…all of you?” 

John bobbed his head upon swallowing the bite of baguette. “Correct. See, I’ll be workin’ there, too!” 

Yeeee-up. The Shermer School District was Carter & Craig’s new client—Shermer High specifically. Bill had had a meeting with the superintendent, who, again, still wasn’t Rooney but some perpetually angry bald guy. Certain aspects of school infrastructure desperately required repairs. And *had* required those repairs for years, but the proposed budget never went through. Until now. The auditorium, the gymnasium, the cafeteria, and some bathrooms needed patching up, and an entire wing—the Art Wing—should’ve been declared condemned many moons ago due to not being up to building codes. It was nice to know that a place he’d gone to regularly—his Shop class had been in the Art Wing—should’ve been condemned a long time ago. A beam could’ve fallen on his back or something, no big deal.

Anyway, he was contracted for the last semester this year and over the summer to renovate the auditorium. Rich was not as generous any more now that his daughter wasn’t matriculating there. If his grandkids started going there, on the other hand…

Dick backed up against a display of Chex Mix. John snickered. “You’re a teacher, too, Mr.…John?” 

John and Claire traded glances, then at once cracked up. “No,” he laughed, regarding the perplexed “Miami Vice” extra in Aisle 12. “Oh, hell no! No, no, noooooo. Your, ah, auditorium needs some work done. And guess who’s the Junior Foreman on the project?” 

Dick crashed into that same display again. He cursed and bent to retrieve an errant box of Chex Mix cereal. “You…you work for Carter & Craig Construction?!”

Queenie answered for him. “That’s right! Big Bill Carter says he’s the best they got! The auditorium’s in good hands. Sir.” Claire rubbed his back, and John had to remind himself not to go to puddle-mode. 

John wrapped an arm around the wife’s ever expanding waist. “And Claire speaks better French than she does English. I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about half the time.” 

Cherry giggled and whapped him on the shoulder. 

Dick was still gawking between them, plainly bewildered. “And, eh, do you plan on…putting your, uh, children in the Shermer school system?”

John and Claire regarded each other and shrugged. “If we’re still here, sure!” she chirped. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, smirking. “Dani goes where we went.”

Dick leaned up against the display, as though he couldn’t rely on his own weight anymore. “Which means that there will be at least one more Bender roaming the halls…”

“At least!” John crowed proudly, ruffling Dani’s hair. “Could be three at a time. You never know.”

*That* had Dick blanching again and muttering something about considering early retirement, and John could not hold in his responding cackle this time. 

Claire glanced at his awesome Iron Maiden watch, which he’d won in a crane machine for fifty cents. “Oh! We better go if we want to order Chinese for dinner. And we have to walk the dog.”

John groaned. “You mean *I* have to walk the dog. And wait for him to ‘mark his territory’. And pick up his poop. Because I’ll get fined if I don’t.” He’d found that out the hard way. 

In the shopping cart, Dani squealed. “Doggie go poop! Little Foot go pooooooooooop!” 

“Yeah,” he scoffed, pushing his hair out of his face. “He goes poop. He goes *lots* of poop. Claire, we have a yard now!”

The wife placed her hands on her hips and flashed him that no-nonsense façade that both petrified him and turned him on. “John, it doesn’t have a fence yet! Besides, it’s good exercise!” 

John grumbled beneath his breath. Dick continued gawking at them as though they’d all sprouted an extra limb out of their nostril. 

Claire smiled at their erstwhile vice principal once more. “We’ll pass your regards onto Andy, Allison, and Brian!”

Dick blinked. Again, as John knew he would. “Er, wh—who do you say?”

Queenie hefted the basket a tad higher. “Andrew Clark—you remember him? The championship wrestler? Allison Reynolds—well, it’s Allison Clark now; she and Andy got married a few years ago, and now she’s expecting her first. And Brian Johnson—he just got engaged to a friend of ours he met at Northwestern. Remember? We were all in detention together!” 

For the third time, Dick’s back collided with that Chex Mix display. Inwardly, John was cracking up. “You mean…you’re all…friends? Still? And…married? They’re *married*?” 

“That’s right!” Claire confirmed, brightly flashing her pearly whites. “And, um, so is Tyson Carter and Megan Hicks. Sloane Peterson and Ferris Bueller are getting married, too. Cameron Frye lives with them. Let’s see, Stubbie—Steve Marshall—is down in El Salvador with his girlfriend, who is Allison’s sister. My brother, Josh—I think you had him, too—is married. My parents are still in town. John’s mother just moved to Shermer—“ 

Dick made another of those curious choking sounds. “Your *mother*?!” 

John grinned. “That’s right, Dick. Everyone has a mommy somewheres, after all.” 

Claire glanced at his crane machine watch again. “We better get going! I’ll tell them you said hi! Most of them are in Chicago. See you around, Mr. Vernon!” 

“Yeah, *Dick*, see you, buddy!” Bending at the knee to be more level with the kid, John added, “Dani, say bye to Dick.”

Dani craned her red head over her shoulder and flapped her little hand. “Bye to Dick!”

Speechless, all the dude could do was stand there next to that haphazard Chex Mix cereal display and wave like a brain-dead idiot. 

Neither of them spoke again until they reached checkout. Once in line, John and Claire exchanged looks, blinked, and erupted in hilarity. “D—did you see his face?” Bender stuttered as he tried to catch his breath. 

Claire braced her curled fist against the metal of the checkout counter as she laughed and laughed. “I bet he’s still standing there!” 

“Looked like he was about to shit himself at the prospect of three Benders wandering the hallowed halls of Shermer High School.” 

That cut them up once more, and they continued the belly laughter as they unloaded the contents of their cart onto the checkout counter. 

In fact, they were so distracted, Claire barely blinked when Dani asked if she could pretty please have a Kit Kat; she’d save it for after dinner. 

They did notice, however, through the large plate glass windows when the leisure suited Vernon snuck out of the Aldi’s without purchasing anything, his shopping cart abandoned in Aisle 12, scuttled across the square of tar, climbed inside his black Sport Utility Vehicle, and sped out of the parking lot with a screech of tires and motor oil. 

John and Claire stared at each other and laughed some more. 

Dani demanded to know what was so funny.  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I found out today, after I finished writing this, that the guy Matt Weiner based Don Draper of Mad Men on actually worked at Leo Burnett Worldwide in Chicago, where I stuck Andy, a budding (m)ad man xD I do not believe in coincidences, signor! 
> 
> Note 2: Meh, Father of the Bride Part II actually came out in '95. I thought it was earlier but woops lol. Oh well. *clings to poetic license* 
> 
> Note 3: LGBT marriage started to become legalized in Canada in 1985 in certain provinces, largely due to a section in their Charter that prohibited discrimination ("I can't marry you because *mumblemumble*). It was made federal law ten years later after a lengthy governmental meeting wherein it was decided that sex counted as discriminatory, along with race, creed, ethnicity, disability, all that stuff. Down here, it took us, meh, 18 or 19 years to catch up. We're known to slag. We jump into World Wars when it looks like the Allies could use a dose of assistance in the form of freedom and eagles and krispie kreme burgers! *waves miniature plastic garden flag left over from July 4
> 
> Note 4: It...is NOT recommended now that expectant mothers eat diet anything xD But back in the early 90s? Sure, go nuts. Eat ALL the shit that's bad for you and Baby. Want a glass of Merlot with that?
> 
> Note 5: Reviewer reminded me that Judd did the VO work for Hot Rod in the original Transformers cartoon xD I can't believe I forgot that, my brother had a bunch of episodes on tape (VHS, aging myself here). He loved that 'toon. And it definitely succeeded in selling him overpriced toys he didn't need. "Mama, I want the wobot fruck! Da FRUCK!"
> 
> Note 6: Gushers hit the shelves in '91 and thus became a lunchbox staple. I still get them lol. No one touch my Gushers. 
> 
> Note 7: John would definitely love Beavis and Butthead. 
> 
> Note 8: Steinmetz, on the Northwest Side, was where Hugh Hefner went to grade school.
> 
> Note 9: And fini! This part anyway. If any of y'all have any specific requests to any flashbacks I alluded to in this one that you wanna see me explore more fully in the prequel just drop a comment here!


	57. Update

Soooooo I've laid down words on the prequel last night. I was gonna wait a little longer but hell, it's pandemic time, I'm looking for work, and in the meantime, I've got nothin' better to do lol. I've got a few pages down already, so I'll further update this when the first part is up.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! I’m Bee, and I’m probably way too old to be doing this but, hey. You’re only as old as you feel (in which case, I should be about 115, *”It’s been 84 years…” gif*). I know I may seem new at this whole fanfic thing but I’m a longtime writer and cut my teeth on here back in the day. I used to write Buffy fanfic as a teenager, mostly AU stuff (that I cringe upon looking at now). I’m working on an original novel but am experiencing the Dreaded Block. I figured I’d return to my old stomping grounds (typing grounds?) to jog my Muse, whom I call Spangly Bob, a potato who flies around my head farting glitter. I considered a few fandoms, including Buffy again, but ultimately went for TBC because, damnit, I need to know what happens after the movie ends. It’s one of the most frustrating endings to a perfect movie in history, I swear.  
I’ve been working on this for a minute. If I had to label ship-wise, this is foremost a Bender and Claire story, though I will be checking in with the others. And I also added an OC for Brian because everybody deserves love. Though I won’t be writing in her POV because I know too much emphasis on OCs can feel Mary-Sueish. 
> 
> Anyway, this was the prologue. The rest of the chapters should be longer. 
> 
> -Bee  
PS: Anything said or done in this fic does not reflect my personal views. Just getting into the character's mindspace, and that 80s mentality.


End file.
